


call me a safe bet (i'm betting i'm not)

by kyojinouji



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Camping, Color Rush AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of OCD, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Yunho and Jongho are brothers, Yunho is kind of an ass but he gets better, all the before mentioned triggers are in the past and mentioned via flashbacks, it's a slippery slope and I have bad balance, its the tenteez fic someone actually DID ask for, like slow burn but then it gets doused in kerosene at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: Sea salt never belonged in old wounds, but Yunho always had a knack for pouring it right in. Maybe that was why he found himself drawn to the very man whose heart he broke years ago.A Color Rush inspired AU where Yunho learns the color pink twice, camping with eight grown men is impractical, and bluebells might as well have their own ballads.
Relationships: Choi San/Jeong Yunho, Minor Choi Jongho/Song Mingi - Relationship, Minor Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang - Relationship, Minor or Background Relationship(s), minor Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	call me a safe bet (i'm betting i'm not)

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ Sections in italics are flashbacks! ✧
> 
> a few bops that inspired this fic:
> 
> colors - halsey  
> you - wrenn  
> rose-colored boy - paramore  
> your ex-lover is dead - stars
> 
> and of course, the title song: the boy who blocked his own shot - brand new

_ "I'm so scared, quiet lover; can't keep my voice down. _

_ Soon, the whole world will know I don't do good in crowds. _

_ So if I panic and I tell you,  don't want you around,  _

_ know I'm lying to you." _

_**You** \- WRENN _

* * *

He never liked roses. 

To him, they were cliche, their fragrance was far too heavy, and the petals had a velvety quality that made his skin itch— like they were too perfect to be real. 

But that never came up in conversation before now. His boyfriend— fiancé— had no way of knowing that. Lovers were supposed to appreciate the finer things in life; the little gestures that came from the heart.

So, why did Yunho shove the bouquet back into San’s chest? Why did it  _ please _ him to see the way the delicate crimson petals crumpled under the pressure of being too pristine? 

_ They were supposed to be red.  _

“Yun-“

“You left dishes in the sink,” Yunho murmurs, pushing past the blonde easily. San moves to the side, unwilling to stand in the tempest that Yunho spurred around them. 

San hums and clenches the plastic in his hands tightly. It crinkles, like thunder and lightning in midnight silence, but neither man speaks. Not until Yunho makes his way to the kitchen. When he hits the island, his arms fold over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” San says quietly. He speaks like a windchime, too quiet for Yunho to hear over the roaring winds that tear within his heart. His flannel is Yunho’s, far too baggy and covering his hands. Another thing Yunho will have to ask him to leave behind. Or rather, what he’ll take with him when he goes.

They knew where this was going. At twenty-four, it was foolish to hope for something more. But they had wanted it all— Yunho had been so certain when he bought the amethyst ring on San’s finger. They had been so  _ fucking _ sure of everything.

And now, in the little yellow kitchen decorated with sunflowers and strawberries, Yunho felt like he had stepped into someone else’s home. They had painted the walls that delicate lemon sorbet tone themselves. 

But looking at them now, all he sees is grey. 

-

**_→ RED_ **

_ “Why strawberries?” Yunho asked after sparing a glance into their cart. Marshall’s was a poor man’s IKEA and it was always filled to the brim with cutesy home goods. It was no surprise that San insisted they reroute to the new one that opened on Main Street instead of anything further into the campus plains. _

_ “Because,” San had grinned, holding the ceramic salt and pepper shakers up to Yunho’s cheek, “they match your ears when you blush.” _

_ The same rosey tone spread down Yunho’s neck in seconds; painting him like a canvas in a street show. He didn’t know how vibrant the color was until he met San. But that was the beauty of falling in love. _

_ It only took a breath for San to delve into high-pitched giggles as he pulled a wooden sunflower clock from the cart.  _

_ “Why?” _

_ “Because you’re my Sanshine,” Yunho mumbled before scurrying into the next aisle over. It was no surprise when San’s melodic laughter followed him. _

-

Yunho sleeps on the couch and doesn’t move when San gets up for breakfast. He pretends that the pitter-patter of the blonde’s bare feet on the hardwood is non-existent. The feeling of lips on his cheek as San leaves for work is the gift of a ghost, not his lover. 

He’ll spend the day packing and call Mingi to make sure Jongho’s old bedroom is still a spare. Most of all, he’ll sit down and think of what he needs to tell San. 

Should he warn the others? Would it be so wrong to just handle their relationship on his own? 

By the time he’s upright and ready to begin the process, he doesn’t feel any more prepared.

Even as his fingers tap along the keyboard, meandering through his excuses, there is nothing he can say. Words are impossible to dredge up through the numbness that laces his skin. 

-

**_→ ORANGE_ **

_ Yeosang smiled at him from behind a sweater paw.  _

_ “So, you’re the famous Yunho,” he giggled, snorting when San tried to push him off the small, study lounge couch. “Sannie talks about you all of the time.” _

_ “I don’t,” San whined, fidgeting with the mechanical pencil on his lap desk. There was a pretty pink tinge blanketing his features, or rather, Yunho assumed it was pink. The pastel tones were still far too faint to really tell. But they were there and that was what mattered.  _

_ Yunho couldn’t pull his focus away from the way San’s dark eyes glittered in the room’s blanched lighting. Filled with hope and stardust. _

_ “What makes me so famous?” Yunho grinned. “Is it my wonderful personality? Or maybe my killer fashion-sense?”  _

_ “It’s your tonka truck ass and the fact that you leave notes shaped into origami pieces on his desk every Tuesday-Thursday,” the dark-haired one named Wooyoung offered. “Our windowsill is littered with them now.” _

_ It was no surprise when he left a little orange fox on top of a fresh hot chocolate the next week. San hardly found it in himself to unfold the delicate creature just to read Yunho’s chicken-scratch. _

_ ‘do u really think im foxy? bc i know u are - yu-nho-who’ _

-

“Did you leave him a note?” Yeosang asks, maneuvering his car into Mingi’s driveway. “You need to-“

“Yeosang, I know,” he breathes, unbuckling the seatbelt. “I loved him for nearly six years. Give me more credit.”

The younger man glowers at him. Hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white, Yunho sees the way he flexes his fingers. Like he wants to send a well-aimed hit into Yunho’s jaw, but it might also be a waste of his time.

“You are my friend,” Yeosang says as Yunho slings his duffle over his shoulder, “but I’ll be honest, I hope this hurts you more than it’s going to hurt San. What you’re doing to him is inexcusable.”

_ Friend _ . Once Yunho is out of sight, there’s a chance the two of them may never see each other again. Yeosang was San’s friend before he was Yunho’s. And Yunho would never risk taking something else from his lover. 

_ Ex-lover. _

__ “Thank you,” Yunho mumbles. It’s sincere, full of unspoken promises that didn’t have enough time to flourish. And the younger sighs, sensing the finality of the statement. 

“Take care, Yun,” Yeosang says softly, his fingers finding Yunho’s. He offers only a gentle squeeze before starting the car again. Yunho watches him drive away, a dull feeling fluttering in his chest like cotton in water. It absorbs the pain he’s sure will come later; when the door is closed and he’s finally alone.

Mingi isn’t home when he weedles his way over the threshold. Maybe it’s for the better as Yunho cradles the spare key in his palm. It’s a lifeline, tossed over the edge of a drifting warship, and pulling him onboard. Only this time, he wonders if the others will wish they severed that rope long ago. 

The extra bedroom is nearly bare, save for the bed, desk, and dresser. His best friend must have placed the folded sheet set on the mattress before he left for work, despite the short notice, and Yunho can’t fight the sodden expression that dances over his features when his gaze settles on them. 

Mingi always took care of him– even when there were far bigger things to plan for in life. 

“Give it a few days,” Mingi had said, his voice still laced with the dredges of sleep. “You might–” 

“I won’t,” Yunho whispered. He refused to crumble again, to hold on tightly to the red thread that had been cut so long ago. “Mingi, I can’t do this anymore. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells every day. What if I wake up tomorrow and he’s packing his stuff?” 

“Like you’re doing to him?” the other mumbled. Yunho assumed he wasn’t supposed to hear it, but Mingi was never one for subtleties. “The key is where it’s always been. Just think this through before you walk out that door, man.”

Yunho isn’t a child. If they were younger, still in university, then maybe he would accept the patronizing attempts of his friend to sway his mind. But in the pale glow of the afternoon sun, it’s everything he can do not to snap. 

Yet he stands in the empty bedroom now, hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and wonders if he truly did think this through. 

\- 

**_→ YELLOW_ **

_ “I’m afraid of love,” San murmured as his thumb ran down the bare expanse of Yunho’s torso. “Which means I should be terrified of you.” His laughter gave Yunho wings that day.  _

_ “Love is a heavy word,” Yunho had said softly. San’s touch was butterfly light, warm and starlit in the cheap dorm room they dreamed of leaving. San’s yellow and white striped sweater caught his attention. He must have tossed it off carelessly because it was stuck to the lampshade. A fire hazard, no doubt.  _ _  
_ _ He didn’t really want to get up to fix it either.  _

_ It had been two months of stolen kisses and whispered praise. Even so, it was what they had.  _

_ “Do you think we should tell them?” San asked, shuddering when Yunho’s grip tightened on his hip. “That we’re fucking, I mean.”  _

_ He was breathless, throat still raspy with abuse, but the smile on his face was enough for Yunho to pull him back into another kiss. _

_ Their friends didn’t have to know.  _

_ Not when Yunho was just as afraid.  _

-

Falling out of love doesn’t hurt.

Not when it happens gradually; while the world desperately chases its own tail and leeches all of the color from your soul. It only aches when the memory of being part of something ghosts through your veins. 

Looking at San now, his eyes downcast and his frown permanent, the pain hits Yunho all at once. 

“Do you still see them?” he whispers, not quite letting his voice leave his lips. How could he? 

Even so, San makes a noise in the back of his throat; kin to a hum. When he shakes his head, a shattering sound that catapults Yunho’s heart straight into the kingdom walls. It’s only in his mind, but that doesn’t soothe the sting.

“It’s been a few weeks,” San breathes. “You know that cardigan you bought me for Christmas? I haven’t worn it because I have no fucking clue what color it is. I didn’t want you to be upset, so I shoved it into the space between the dresser and the drawer– like that would hide anything.”

A plump tear dances from the corner of San’s eye. How easy would it be for Yunho to swipe the moisture away? Just to thumb at the soft flesh and kiss away the dew. 

It would only cause more harm than good. 

“You could have told me,” Yunho says quietly, watching the way San swallows. “I wouldn’t have been upset.” 

“How was I supposed to know that, Yun?”

When the blonde shifts, the hoodie sleeves covering his hands catch Yunho’s attention. They’re tattered, stained in at least a dozen places, and torn in even more. 

But he finds comfort in the imperfections. 

“You weren’t,” Yunho says, smiling when San’s sad gaze locks onto him. “Sometimes, it’s better not to know.”

When San asks for a hug, just one more before they go their separate ways, Yunho gives in breathlessly. If he could lend the other man anything, it would be the hope to find a better tomorrow and a world shroud in a million, iridescent tones. 

But for today, a hug was the simplest option.

-

_ Ordinary _ . Three years later, he is nothing more than ordinary.

Meager with opportunities dwindling, his life was how he preferred it. Cast in the monochromatic scheme he had grown so used to over the years, Jeong Yunho knew not of the person he once was. Or rather, he knew all too well. And for that, he was willing to change everything. 

With a sigh, he lifts the apple crate over his head and marches toward the produce section with an iron expression. Eight hours of manual labor, but it was enough to pay the bills and put a meal on the table at the end of the night. Eight hours of pretending to care about the bruises customers insisted he left on their peaches and the ones that they hinted they wanted him to replicate on their own flesh. Eight hours of telling Angela from the beauty counter that he was most certainly not interested in getting a ‘coffee’ with her no matter how many times she asked. 

It was ordinary, but that was all he wanted. 

And just as he is plucking fruit from the Granny Smith and Red Delicious boxes, someone stops him from completing his completely monotonous task with a quiet gasp. Truth be told, he doesn’t register the person’s voice until their fingers are wrapping around his wrist in a vice grip. 

“Yunho?” 

He startles,  _ because who wouldn’t _ , and faces his captor with a panicked whine. However, the figure before him is one of the last he expected to see on a lifeless afternoon. 

Jung Wooyoung. 

San’s best friend and Yeosang’s boyfriend– husband, it seems, by the glint of a metal band on his ring finger. He stares back, dark eyes wide, and smiles widely when Yunho drops the apple he was holding onto the tile. Another bruise.

“Do you work here?” he asks, raking his gaze over the apron donning Yunho’s figure. “I’m assuming yeah. Sorry, it was probably a stupid question.”

“There are no stupid questions,” Yunho snorts, not quite understanding why. “I do. I live around the block and this was the closest place hiring when I moved in.”

Finally, Wooyoung lets go of his wrist. It takes nearly everything not to reach for the offended portion of his body and rub at the skin like a madman. Scaring Wooyoung off only a minute after reuniting didn’t sound like the best plan. Even if his brain was setting off warning bells that someone had touched him. 

Someone whose hands had been God knows where before this. 

He tries, and fails, to prevent the shudder than runs down his spine.

“Oh,” Wooyoung murmurs, staring at Yunho’s reaction. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his mouth pops into a tiny ‘o’. “Is your OCD still bad?” he asks.

Yunho falls stock-still. It’s not the question that catches him off guard, but the memory that transpires with it. The fact that Jung Wooyoung kept such a little part of Yunho is his mind. It almost makes him feel normal.  _ Almost. _

“Yeah,” he says softly, “it’s manageable though. Sorry, I know-“

“No, no, don’t apologize!” the other man backtracks quickly. “I forgot, dude, I’m the one who’s sorry. I just got excited to see you again.”

“It’s been a while,” Yunho mumbles. 

And of course, it has. Three years is enough time to change anything. But for him, it all stayed the same. A monochrome kiss on the cheek of someone who once considered himself to be a hopeless romantic. It serves him right, he supposes.

Despite the awkwardness, Wooyoung smiles and gestures somewhere in the middle distance. 

“Yeosangie is here too. We should catch up later,” he says, already fumbling through his pockets. When he pulls out his cell, an older model iPhone cracked to hell and back, he shoves it into Yunho’s hands. “Number.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I thought–”

Wooyoung holds up a palm, effectively silencing any protest that Yunho might offer. Even when he tries a second time, the younger man just whines and taps at the screen repetitively. 

“I miss you. Yeosang misses you,” he says. “Honestly, we all miss you, Yunho. Three years is a long time, but it’s also not forever.”

So, Yunho complies. With nimble fingers, he texts his own phone and watches as Wooyoung saves the contact swiftly. The device only just slips into his pocket when a head of blonde hair emerges from the next aisle over. 

What he doesn’t expect is the serenity that consumes Yeosang’s features as the other man approaches them. He had been prepared for tension– simmering anger still lingering in the blonde’s veins. Not a soft giggle as he is pulled into a tight hug. 

“Holy shit,” Yeosang murmurs into Yunho’s apron. “You’re a welcome face.” 

“Hey, Yeosang,” he breathes as the younger’s hair tickles his chin. 

When they separate, the other two men stare at Yunho as though he hung the moon and all of her brilliant stars. That is to say, with wide eyes and glittering expressions that he feels terrible putting a damper on but–

“I have to finish stocking the fruit carts,” Yunho finally brings himself to say. He was still working, after all, and would prefer to keep his ass un-busted. His boss could drive a hard bargain with overtime. 

The couple nods, but nothing stops Wooyoung from standing on his tiptoes to pinch the eldest’s cheek. 

“We’re having people over on Saturday,” he tosses out as he settles back onto the balls of his feet. “If you’re free, we’d love for you to come.”

Yunho pauses. The box by his feet sits untouched, as though just the mention of such an event makes him forget his responsibilities and transports him back to the past. Yeosang must notice his hesitation and smiles carefully; like he’s trying not to break the glass. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, “but it would be nice to catch up. Three years is a long time.” 

When they leave, it's with tentative agreement on Yunho’s end and Wooyoung promising to shoot him the address as soon as they were in the car. 

Yunho continues about his business; picking apples from the pile and hoping that no one mixed them together at any point. It was difficult enough learning the types by shape and slight variation in tone. 

His boss was aware that Yunho couldn’t see the vivid reds, pinks, golds, and greens. However, that didn’t mean he was willing to skimp out on doing a good job. 

Against all odds, his heart doesn’t leap to his throat when his phone buzzes twenty minutes later. A glance on his break reveals that the couple lives in one of the complexes nearest to his own. It’s odd that they have yet to run into each other, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise him. 

He rarely leaves his apartment anyway.

By the time his shift ends, his fingers feel nearly raw. It had been a long day of the same three actions: opening boxes, filling crates, and dropping them into their assorted positions across the shop floor. Every time his knife slid through the cellophane packaging on the new supply shipments, he had to spend twice as long peeling the plastic off of them. 

Going home is a welcome feeling at the end of every shift. He used to love the hustle and bustle of the world around him. Meeting new people, hearing tales from whoever stumbled into him along their journey, anything that made life into the glittering emerald jewel atop a dragon’s hoard. 

Working in a chain grocery under headquarter management was, by far, not one of those brilliant experiences. Even so, he does it to make ends meet. As usual, when he stumbles through his front door, the only things on his mind are a hot shower and the rotisserie chicken he snagged from the deli. He tosses his keys into the ceramic dish on the entryway table and turns toward the living room, expecting to see the space lit only by the blue glow of his fish tank. There were no fish in it yet, just moss balls, but the goal was obvious. 

Instead, he’s met with a space entranced in the golden light of the ceiling fixtures and two ornery faces. He assumes it’s golden, as most cheap bulbs were.

“Welcome home,” Mingi says, snorting when Yunho lets out a guttural groan. “If you didn’t want us here, why did you give me a key?” 

“In case I got locked out,” Yunho mumbles, moving toward the kitchen. His socks drag on the hardwood as he pulls himself in the direction of one of the counters. When the plastic bag settles noisily onto the surface, he spins to pout at the two men before him. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day! You weren’t locked out and you get two friends to keep you company.”

“Lord knows you need it,” Jongho offers, grinning when Yunho raises a brow. “The tank is still empty. We got you it so you could buy yourself something to talk to.”

“I’m not looking for fish until I can actually see what they look like,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “Knowing you assholes, you would let me name a green fish something stupid like ‘Chili Pepper’.”

“I’m pretty certain you wouldn't name anything Chili Pepper, dipshit,” Mingi shrugs. Yunho gasps in mock offense at his future fish’s honor. “And even so, a little birdy told me you had a few visitors at the shop today. We just wanted to check on how you were holding up.”

Yunho hums quietly. Of course, the concern is appreciated, but also unnecessary. The existence of San and his friends were not miniature atomic bombs in his life. They were bound to cross paths eventually. Rather, to face the music and walk in whatever direction they wished to follow. 

“It was fine,” Yunho says finally, rerouting himself toward the cabinet. Carefully, he lifts three plates from the stack and settles them onto the counter with a frown. If the two of them were here, they might as well have dinner too. 

“Just fine?” Jongho repeats. When Yunho nods and pushes a saucer into his chest with a pout, the youngest makes a face. “Wooyoung didn’t go overboard? I feel like he has a habit-”

“Jongho,” Yunho says with a smile, “it went well, okay? Stop worrying about your hyung and actually grab some food. Lord knows if my brother-in-law is feeding you well.” 

The comment earns a grunt from said relative. Mingi glowers back at him as Yunho shoves a dish in his direction as well. 

“I feed him just well, you worrywart,” the blonde murmurs, already moving toward the rotisserie. “Are you even eating anything that doesn’t come from the shop?” 

“Everything comes from a shop, Mingi, that’s how capitalism works.” 

For that comment alone, the fork that jabs into his wrist is probably well-deserved.

-

**_→ GREEN_ **

_ “Yun?” Jongho asked, his shoulder pressed against the doorframe. “Can I talk to you about something?”  _

_ “You already are,” Yunho muttered, but shoved his headphones off nonetheless. It was rare that his little brother wanted to have a conversation, so his match could wait. Just for good measure, he clicked out of the competition queue and spun to face the younger.  _

_ Jongho looked nervous. His skin had caught a pallor and his face was blank– as though he was hiding important information that he wasn’t necessarily willing to share. Even so, he settled onto the edge of Yunho’s mattress with a distant sigh.  _

_ “You know Mingi, yeah?” _

_ “Song Mingi?” Yunho asked. When Jongho nodded, his lips pulled into a low frown. “As in my best friend since pre-school? What the hell do you mean ‘you know Mingi’?” _

_ Though he didn’t think it possible, his brother paled even more. Whatever was on his mind had to be heavy, and if it involved Mingi, Yunho knew better than to let himself assume anything. However, Jongho’s next statement hit him like a bullet.  _

_ “I might have kissed– well, okay, I definitely did kiss Song Mingi,” the boy rushed out quickly. “To be fair, it was a mutual thing, but–” he cut himself off and plastered his gaze to the rug. “Why is this so hard to tell you?” _

_ Yunho gaped. There was no way he didn’t look like a catfish, staring at his brother as though the boy had severed a limb. When Jongho finally glanced back up, he rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Oh, for God’s sake, close your mouth before you catch flies,” he whined, slapping the other’s shoulder. “I can’t tell if you’re angry with me.” _

_ It snapped Yunho out of his trance in a breath.  _

_ “Why would I be angry?” he asked.  _

_ “It’s always been you and Mingi,” Jongho said carefully, his fingers wrapped around the hem of his T-shirt. “I always just assumed it would be like that until we were all old and grey. But then I asked you a few weeks ago how you felt about him and you said–” _

_ “That he’s my platonic soulmate,” Yunho said, “and that whoever got to call him theirs would be incredibly lucky.”  _

_ Maybe in another universe, he would see Mingi differently. However, here, he was the only person wild enough to follow through with half of Yunho’s impulsive plans. Things as simple as driving to the ocean at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning or breaking into one of the abandoned mini-golf courses just to schedule an impromptu photoshoot for Instagram. Mingi was his other half in all ways except romantic.  _

_ So, hearing his baby brother confess something as precious as his crush on the older man only made him grin and pull the boy into a tight hug.  _

_ “You thought I was going to get angry with you for liking Mingi? You’ve been around him forever. I’d be more upset if a stranger fell for him, I think.”  _

_ When they separated, Jongho could only wipe away fresh tears with the sleeve of his neon green hoodie; the same one that Mingi had stolen from him years ago. Yet somehow, the idea made him giggle.  _

_ “Are you laughing because I’m crying?” Jongho asked, his nose stuffy.  _

_ “Not at all,” Yunho chuckled. “Where’d you snag this from though?” he added and plucked the material. He couldn’t stop himself from bursting into a snorting fit when Jongho squeaked and tore from the room.  _

-

Wooyoung opens the door with a grin and an already full glass of pink Moscato. He pulls Yunho into the party as though that was the only place the older was ever meant to be. Behind him, Mingi and Jongho saunter in with twin expressions of dull terror.

The biggest warning of the night came before they even left Yunho’s apartment. The three had been watching Netflix, rerunning old dramas that Jongho insisted were classics, while waiting for 6 PM. Wooyoung mentioned that they could swing by earlier than the specified time, but there was a sense of certainty that came with something so official. One that did well to calm Yunho’s buzzing nerves.

When his phone chimed, he fought the urge to fling it across the room. No matter how many precautions he took, there would always be that jumpy part of him that couldn’t relax. There was no ‘or’ to be found between his fight and flight instincts. 

**Woo <3**

_ don’t shoot the messenger _

_ but san showed up _

**Yunho**

_ I didn’t know you invited him. _

**Woo <3**

_ he said he couldn’t come _

_ like before we even ran into you. _

_ but then i told him you were coming. _

_ i’m so sorry? _

_ not a question, i am sorry _

**Yunho**

_ I’m not mad, Woo. _

_ Thank you for the warning (: _

_ We’ll b there at 6  _

**Woo <3**

_ is that smiley passive aggressive  _

_ i feel threatened _

_ i dont hate it _

**Yunho**

_ I reserve the right to kink shame u _

_ Three years away from eachother doesn’t free you from gay baby jail. <3 _

__ **Woo <3**

_ i am a prisoner to my heart _

_ trapped in my own soul _

_ i’ll wax poetry when u roll up _

_ u’ll love it i promise _

Standing in the room now, he knows exactly where things went wrong. It wasn’t at the supermarket when Wooyoung grabbed his wrist or the moment that Mingi solemnly agreed to go to the party. 

It was when he looked at San, haloed in the monochrome grace of the setting sun, and let the boy pull him into his orbit. 

That is to say, he did not regret his life with San. The memory of the blonde beside him, as they learned just how cerulean blue the ocean’s depths could be from the Discovery channel’s Shark Week, never soured. Not once did it taste like ash or sand as his mind pulled moments of their past into his dreams. 

Seeping vibrancy from a watercolor painting was easy when everything was abstract. San was pigmented tyrian purple and Yunho was the brush meant to fill in the gaps between the lines. But when the diluted tones spilled over the edges, tinting bits that were best saved for later, it sent Yunho into a spiral.

If things weren’t perfect, how could he ever expect San to stay? San poured beauty into his life and Yunho’s job was to spread it true to form. But everything they made together didn’t follow the mold. It mixed with ink and collected rainwater. 

San was Yunho’s first. Movies and books made love seem so pristine, so polished. Though it was supposed to be clean-cut and floral, the thorns kept pricking his fingers whenever he played his part at romance. And San?

San always deserved better. Someone who could bloom roses from his bedsheets and waltz in the moonlight without missing a beat. Clovers could spring to life just from his voice alone, but his spirit could blanket the world in a field of peonies and buttercups. Yunho was no source of light for such beauty. 

When color began to seep from the crevices in his heart and revealed the desaturated world that had always existed beneath their fingertips, it was no surprise to Yunho. He had forced himself to stop loving the other– to stop feeling anything at all. Even if it brought no relief when the color faded from San’s life too.

As soon as Yunho’s attention lands on him, in the center of the living room, he wonders if there was maybe some truth to romance films. Why else would his ex-lover glow brighter than anything Yunho has ever seen? 

San doesn’t seem to notice him though. Instead, he’s immersed in a conversation with a boy Yunho only vaguely recognizes from Wooyoung’s social media. In seconds, they’re motioning at the kitchen and wandering off to fetch new drinks. 

It’s everything Yunho can do to breathe.

“Yunho?” Mingi says behind him, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. “You alright?” 

“I think so,” he mumbles, not missing the way Wooyoung’s eyes dance across the scene. When the younger shoots him an apologetic look, Yunho offers a simple smile. After all, Wooyoung did warn him. For that alone, he had to be thankful. 

Mingi hums, not exactly convinced, but listens intently as Wooyoung directs their tiny group toward the drinks before rejoining his crowd. While the walk, Yunho takes in the layout of the apartment. 

The living room wall, facing their balcony, is almost entirely glass. Over the sliding doors, they’ve hung dozens of little crystals meant to refract the light. Prismatic rainbows of tones he could only dream of seeing again. He wonders, for a moment, if San would have decorated their space similarly. 

There’s no doubt that Wooyoung and Yeosang have worked hard to get to this point. That alone makes Yunho smile. He was nothing if not proud of his old friends. They deserved every bit of joy the universe was willing to deliver them and more. 

Still, the distraction does little to smother his nerves as they burn like tiny embers coursing through his veins. 

When they round the corner, Yunho peeks through the window cut-out that showcases the kitchen. Despite the tiny slats in the shutters, he catches sight of San and the mystery man. San is laughing, his back pressed to the counter, as the other boy gestures wildly, caging him in. It’s an obviously comfortable pose and one that crushes Yunho’s heart immediately. 

Someone else was always the plan. Yet, seeing it in action was an event he hadn’t truly prepared himself for. 

The others must not see the scene, however, as they continue to push through the mingling crowd. Maybe that’s why he freezes as soon as they step over the threshold and San’s chime-like giggles fall silent. It’s convenient, and oddly poetic, that the last song ends just as the two exes lock eyes.

Over the pounding intro of whatever pop song Wooyoung had queued, Yunho watches emotion after emotion flicker across San’s face. The pieces progressing through a wide range, plopped into a magic lantern, and projected for all to see. And before Yunho can run back out the door, the other man’s expression settles into a soft smile. 

“Yunho,” he says. Or at least, that’s what it looks like from nearly ten feet away. The boy on his hip waves cautiously as well. Almost as though he’s signifying that it’s safe for Yunho to take a step closer– like neither will bite him if he acts fast. 

Dipping his toes into the tepid pool of life, Yunho holds his breath. Diving right in would be a better method. And yet, the concept is impossible. 

“Hi, San,” he finally whispers, knowing it can’t be heard over the music. San doesn’t seem to mind though as he pushes away from the counter and crosses the space in two strides. 

Yunho doesn’t remember him looking this sharp. His shoulders are broader than they were three years ago, biceps and chest toned. His waist, cinched tightly by a black leather belt, is so tiny. It takes Yunho a full beat to tear his gaze away from the sight; to stop imagining how easily his hands would circle it. 

“You look good,” San murmurs. The heat rolls off of him in waves, despite the jean jacket and striped crop on his figure, and Yunho bites back whatever inkling of apprehension he had before. The other man catches his attention over San’s shoulder.

Yeonjun, Yunho remembers. One of Wooyoung’s old friends from the video production department. He must have joined the group after Yunho left. Uncharacteristic jealousy bites into Yunho’s throat; toxins lacing his veins. 

Did he know the green flecks that danced in San’s eyes? Or the pink that dusted his cheeks when he was kissed breathless in the pale moonlight? 

Against all odds, Yunho shakes off whatever bitterness tries to rip through him.

_ It’s just San.  _

No matter how hot the boy before him is, it’s San. The one whose heart he purposely broke and whose bed he left empty. The one who he hoped, and prayed, would find someone better. Someone who knew how to follow love’s rules without bending them until they broke.

Therefore, as much as Yunho would love to continue this conversation at such an intimate distance, he knows better. Especially with a few extra scattered presences through the kitchen that he would prefer not be privy to his crumbling sense of shame.    
He steps back, just enough to lean against the wall, and bobs his head in some semblance of a nod. An attempt to play it cool. However, it makes a frown bloom on San’s lips.

“How have you been?” Yunho asks quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin San’s night. Even if he had made the decision to be here; knowing well that Yunho had already agreed. 

“Good!” San chirps, glancing over his shoulder. The boy by the counter waves again, waiting for Mingi to pour him a drink. Yunho only catches the label on the cranberry juice bottle before his friend is dumping something else into the plastic cup.

“That’s good,” he says awkwardly. “Is that your boyfriend?” He doesn’t expect the question to pull an indignant snort out of San.

Was it too soon to ask that? Did he seem desperate?  _ Jealous _ ?

“Yeonjun?” San laughs loudly, motioning at the other man. “No, God, no. Soobin might actually skin you alive if he heard you ask that.”

_ Soobin _ . A name that Yunho remembers easily. The other boy had been in a few of his classes, but most importantly, had been one of San’s best friends in his dance classes for years.

“Oh,” he says softly, nodding when Yeonjun gives him a thumbs up, holding two cups. The boy moves back out of the room, but San makes no move to follow him. “Is Soobin here?”

San hums in affirmation. “Somewhere, yeah. They’ve been dating for like a million years, I’m surprised you didn’t know.” 

It’s a comment that makes Yunho pause, especially as Jongho shoulders over to him and shoves a Solo into his hands. He’s sure that it’s red, no matter how cliche the concept was. There was tradition to be had in the act of getting reasonably fucked up, even in their late-twenties. 

When he sniffs the liquid, an involuntary gag yanks itself from his throat.

“Sex on the Beach,” Jongho chuckles. “There’s Ice and Twisted Tea in the fridge though if you’re not feeling a cocktail.”

“This isn’t a cocktail,” Yunho mumbles, taking a sip despite his reaction. The sickly sweet fruit punch runs down his throat, leaving an acidic burn in its wake. “How much vodka did you put in this? I feel like I’m drinking antiseptic.”

“Enough,” Jongho snorts, tipping his own cup to his lips. “Nice hair, San. Pink suits you.”

_ Pink _ . San’s hair was pink. 

Yunho had known, of course, that it was no longer blonde. The moment he laid eyes on his ex, it was one of the first things that he picked up on. But to imagine that his hair matched the color of seashells and coral makes him nearly stutter. Especially as San grins, dimples clawing into his cheeks.

“Do you like it? Seonghwa and Wooyoung asked if I would let them dye it for a photoshoot,” he says and runs a hand through the strands. When his focus lands on Yunho’s face, the older glances away quickly. 

“What do you think, Yun?” Mingi asks, sidling up to the group. “Don’t you think Sannie looks good with pink hair?” 

Yunho stares at him, eyes wide. His mouth flounders open once before snapping shut with a prominent click. Especially when he catches the veil that drops over San’s features. A protective wall meant to block out any threat. 

To have the danger in question be Yunho, however, is enough to make the boy’s heart clench. 

“I wouldn’t know,  _ Mingi _ ,” he grits out, narrowing his gaze, “it’s a very rich, deep grey to me.”

San’s crestfallen bewilderment vanishes as quickly as it settled over him. The playfulness returns in a blink, and before Yunho can exactly process what’s happening, the group is ushering him back into the common area.

“You still dance, right?” San says in his ear. 

The warm breath tickles the soft hair there, brushing his cheek. Yunho hopes the music is loud enough to hide the subtle gasp that slips from his lips. He’s touch starved, of course, but that was no excuse to let his own desires surface in San’s face. 

When he nods, he feels San’s arms loop around his waist, pulling Yunho’s back to his chest. 

“Dance with me,” San whispers, “like old times.” 

Old times? Where they spun around their kitchen in threadbare t-shirts and boxers? Or old times, where they partied at clubs and let strangers grind on them for a little chance at action? Before they were official, but they still left the bar sweaty and intertwined with each other.

“Okay,” Yunho murmurs, letting San pull him by the wrist to the center of the room. Mingi and Jongho do nothing to stop them. Maybe, if he was in a clearer state of mind, he would process the oddness in the situation. However, he doesn’t spend even a moment overthinking. 

“I know this isn’t the best place to have a conversation,” San says, swaying his hips to the rhythm of whatever Tove Lo song pours from the speakers like glitter onto black linoleum. It’s messy, loud, and most certainly not a place to speak. However, Yunho knows San is most comfortable where he can lose himself. 

“It’s alright,” Yunho shrugs, leaning forward. “How have you been?” 

San’s eyes crinkle at the edges and Yunho’s heart flutters against his ribcage. 

“Well, considering that you asked me the same question about five minutes ago in the kitchen, I’d assume I’m still fine.” He gives a little twirl as the beat drops. “You?”

Yunho can feel the blush beginning to burn the tips of his ears.  _ Oh _ . He had already asked that, hadn’t he? 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, jolting when San presses a bit closer and tells him to repeat himself. “Good! Great! Alive.” The last part comes out uncertain. 

And he hopes, for a moment, that San won’t focus on the way his voice cracks. However, the man is already in his space. He’s so close that Yunho has to mentally wage a war between his brain and his hands to prevent him from grabbing the other’s hips. 

“Do you live around here?” San asks. As he moves, Yunho is hit with the familiar scent of sandalwood and basil. San’s cologne, evidently, has not changed from Nautica Blue even after three years. The feeling of nostalgia drips down Yunho’s spine like morning dew.

“Around the corner,” he bites out, forcing himself to fight back the overwhelming surge of emotion threatening to pour from his chest. “You’re still around then, I guess?”

“Downstairs,” San chuckles. The song fades out, changing to Grimes’s “Violence”, just as San reaches for his hand. Not quite understanding why, Yunho lets him take it. With a smile, San continues to swing his hips, but turns around so that his back is pressed to Yunho’s chest. Carefully, he drapes the older’s arm over his shoulder. 

“San–” Yunho breathes into the man’s ear. San shivers as the warmth tickles the nape of his neck, but makes no move to stop.

“If you’re uncomfortable, just tell me,” San says quickly. “I just figured it’s easier to talk if people aren’t trying to grind on you.”

At first, he wants to bite back a snarky comment. But then, the reality of San’s words sets in. 

“Was someone…?”

San hums and arches his spine slightly. “A girl,” he sings. “She was getting ready to grab your waist.” When he casts a cat-like back at Yunho, he is met with a blank stare. “Oh shit, were you looking to hook up with someone tonight? I can back off. Fuck,” he says quickly, already starting to scramble away. “I’m sorry, I just– I’ll go.” 

Before he can leave the floor, though, Yunho is intertwining their fingers desperately. 

“Sannie,” he nearly cries, “hold on. Please don’t run away.”

There’s a split second where San looks like he might still tear in the other direction. Yunho’s grip, watery and diluted, is nowhere near strong enough to tether the other man to him. And yet, San doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch as Yunho thumbs a tentative circle into the dip of his wrist.

“San, I need you to tell me something,” Yunho says. “You said you want to talk. Are you more comfortable in the crowd or do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

San pauses, the light catching his eyes in a way that makes Yunho certain the green flecks would glitter like emeralds. If he could see them. He wishes, above all else, that he still could.

“Quieter is good,” San nods. Despite the affirmation, there’s a hint of uncertainty. “The balcony is right over there, if you’d be okay with it.” 

When Yunho leads them there, he’s immediately hit with realization why it was San’s first suggestion. The balcony is just far enough from prying eyes, but still connected so that the music continues to drum in the background. A liminal space to call their own, if only for a moment.

San’s shoulders sag the moment the night air hits their cheeks.

“You look good,” he says softly, gaze trained on the headlights dancing far beneath them. The city is alive at night, but Yunho is never out to see it. “When Yeosang told me they ran into you, I thought it was a joke at first. After all the years you spent trying to avoid me, how ironic would it be that we ended up in the same neighborhood.”

He takes a sip of his drink and winces at the taste. Yunho, however, wears a similar grimace as San’s words set in.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he says quietly. A passing car honks, blanketing the lie. But San still seems to hear him as an eyebrow lifts into his hairline. 

“Blocking someone’s number doesn’t count as avoidance?” he mumbles. “I’m not angry anymore, you know.”

“You’re allowed to be—“

San holds up a palm. “No, I’m not. Of course, I was hurt, but there's a morbid blessing that comes with love, you know? It’s that falling out of it is as clear as day. Maybe not the reason, but at least, the moment your heart decides to call it quits.”

It takes Yunho a second to understand what San means. But then, the icy comprehension crashes over him like a wave.

“The desaturation,” Yunho murmurs. San nods, not facing him, and rests his chin in his hand. “I guess it’s a blessing in disguise.”

San laughs bitterly. It’s nowhere near the same sound that can sprout bluebells from the bank of garden ponds. Instead, it’s milkweed and thistle brandy— acidic and sharp.

“A blessing or a curse, I don’t think I’ve decided yet.”

“Has anyone?” Yunho sighs. His breath spins crystals and mist into the chilled air. It would be autumn soon, but that never meant much. Time, as a whole, dances at its own leisure; drawing seasons into shapes and memories into nightmares.

They stand in silence for what feels like eons. But all the same, it’s as though the universe passes them by as what they are: soul-bound dust and molecules trapped by a gravitational pull. 

And then, San clears his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Yunho says, cocking his head.

At a glance, San looks like he might pass out. One hand wrapped around his Solo cup while the other balls into a tight fist at his hip. He hesitates long enough that Yunho has the urge to see if he’s alright. 

“Was I the reason we broke up?” he asks cautiously. His tone wavers just slightly. “I know you just...that it...God, Yunho, I don’t know what happened.”

His heart slams against his ribs. He imagines this is how it feels to be a dragonfly in the moments following a head on collision with a semi-truck’s windshield. Floundering, insides gooey.

Just as San looks like he’s going to hurl himself over the edge of the iron-wrought balcony, Yunho scrambles to piece his thoughts together.

“No,” he says quickly. Maybe, it comes out too quick, because San’s face morphs into something rivaling his own panic. “No, no, it was always me. San, I’m so sorry if you ever thought—“

“Stop apologizing,” San interrupts, “please, stop. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“San,” he murmurs, reaching for the younger’s hand. San doesn’t fight him as he intertwines their fingers and massages careful shapes into his knuckles. “I have so much to apologize for.”

“Not tonight, then,” San says. It’s hardly above a whisper, but it echoes as a war cry. “If I spend tonight letting you tell me everything I’ve desperately wanted to hear over the last few years, there’s a chance you’ll leave and never come back.”

The admission is heart wrenching as he stares at the boy in front of him. A tidal wave pulling them down together and dousing the wounds of their past in salt and the sea. Yunho realizes, in that moment, that San’s fear calls out to a part of his spirit he doesn’t have a name for. 

Filled less with longing and more hope. 

“Not tonight, then,” Yunho murmurs as San’s expression falters. The mask slips, a glamour lost to the starry abyss above, and it’s enough for Yunho to pull him closer. 

San sighs shakily into his chest. His shoulders tremble in Yunho’s hold. And all the while, the older can only wonder how long it has been since the sun set. Why else would the golden glow of Wooyoung and Yeosang’s porchlight be the perfect compliment to the peachy tones of San’s hair?

Pink is a good color on him. Though, the tones disappear before Yunho really has the time to process them. A trick of the light, no doubt.

“Yunho?” he says softly. He must feel the way Yunho jolts at the sound, because a tear-slick snort slips out of him. “Can we start over?”

“Does starting over mean leaving the past behind?”

San thinks about it for a moment. “No,” he says finally. When he pulls away from Yunho and takes a step back, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “That would be stupid, don’t you think?”

Yunho laughs quietly, smile only growing when San swipes the dampness from his cheeks and holds out the same hand for Yunho to shake. 

“I’m Choi San and you look like someone I want to be part of my life; no matter the mistakes we’ve made.” 

“I’m Jeong Yunho,” he says, not quite hearing the way the words fall off of his tongue. “And I would be honored to be part of your life if you’re willing to have me there.”

A knock on the balcony door sends them shooting in two different directions. When Yunho whirls around , he’s met with the sight of Wooyoung pressing his nose to the glass. Fog pools around the man’s nostrils as he grins and waves wildly. 

“They probably assumed we were sobbing out here,” San chuckles, turning to head inside. “Yunho?” he says before opening the door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

There isn’t a moment for Yunho to ask what he means. Not with San already being tugged into the apartment by a giggly Wooyoung and Yeosang narrowing his eyes from just over the man’s shoulder. As Yunho steps over the threshold, the blonde yanks him over with a frown.

“Hurt him again and I’ll shatter your kneecaps,” he says lowly, expression changing the moment Wooyoung smiles at him. Still, he whispers another warning before the other two men can rejoin them. “The last thing I want is to lose you for another three years, Yun.”

“I’m sorry,” Yunho says quickly. San isn’t close enough to hear it, so he assumes that one more apology for the night wouldn’t be his undoing. Yeosang evidently doesn’t think so either as he squeezes the older’s shoulder gently.

He watches the way Mingi runs up to San; finally having the chance to visit his friend without infringing on a private moment. 

It’s like watching two comets collide in an iridescent light show. Just for a flash before the scene surrenders itself to the clutches of drab greyscale once more.

-

**_→ BLUE_ **

_ In the aftermath of a college party, Yunho found the words. _

_ “I tried to kill myself once,” Yunho said, watching the way San shifted under the blue light of the LEDs. “It didn’t work.” _

_ “Why?”  _

_ “They found me before the pills could—“ _

_ San stopped him with a hand on his thigh. Eyes wide and filled with something different than concern. Intrigue, possibly. Bewilderment was more likely. _

_ “No, baby, I mean why did you try?” _

_ “Oh,” Yunho mouthed. He wasn’t sure if the word actually fell from his lips or if the rush of air was just a sophisticated breath.  _

_ Did it really matter?  _

_ But when Yunho looked closer, it wasn’t curiosity or confusion. San didn’t look at him with pity. Instead, his level gaze was threaded with coherency and understanding. They flickered between each other when Yunho finally found it in himself to shrug. _

_ “I wanted to see how far I could go,” was all Yunho could bring himself to say.  _

_ There wasn’t an explanation that felt unique. Things like ‘life was too loud’ and ‘I couldn’t take it anymore’ felt like flimsy excuses; things everyone said because they were always on the front burner. They weren’t any less important, but no one chose to end it all over a single story. _

_ There had been a million other reasons that were more difficult to put into words. Like the way every morning was a cement pour being cast over his head or how he couldn’t sit in silence without the static of the universe worming its way into his ears. At one point, he found himself staring at the tinted veins of his wrist wondering how quickly he could dismantle the pencil sharpener on Jongho’s desk.  _

_ A screwdriver would be suspicious, but a butterknife would do the job. Functional fixedness be damned, the goal was always meant to see how things worked. But Jongho would probably notice if one of the blades went missing in the middle of his colored pencil project. _

_ He also remembered the way his body reacted to the train of thought; a shiver used his spine as a ladder while his eyes squeezed themselves shut. A visceral tremor he couldn’t shake.  _

_ And there was no quiet that could block out the thoughts. Real silence made him itch and filled his head with cotton. So, he played music constantly, hoping that at least one song would bring some form of relief. None did for long. _

_ The day he made the choice, his skin buzzing endlessly and no amount of scratching made it stop. The bees, because it was always the fucking bees in his veins and never the dragonflies from his ribcage, had been restless. So, he snuck his father’s bottle of amitriptyline from the bathroom cabinet and prayed for a moment where the world would just sleep.  _

_ His nails had been speckled with crimson when they found him. Even in the hospital, the nurses didn’t clean the dried, caked on blood from beneath them. Not that he blamed anyone. Who would want to be close enough to him to actually erase the evidence? _

_ After his stomach was pumped, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering how far he could go next time. _

_ Though, he wondered how many ‘next times’ there had already been and how many more would follow. Would his soul just get sucked into another life?  _

_ Death never scared Yunho. It only sparked curiosity that one might call morbid.  _

_ When his voice ghosted out of the room, his story done, San intertwined their fingers; tethering Yunho back to the present.  _

_ “And now?” San asked. He didn’t have to explain for Yunho to know where the conversation was going.  _

_ “Honestly? I haven’t thought about it in a while,” he said carefully. It was always an uphill battle to choose his words wisely– not that San would ever pink-slip him. “Sometimes, it’s in the back of my mind. Little whispers here and there, sensations I can’t forget, that sort of thing. It’s normal.” _

_ San didn’t speak for a moment. And in just that second, Yunho wondered if he had overstepped.  _

_ But then, San sighed.  _

_ “I don’t think it’s normal,” he said slowly, “but I also don’t think it’s uncommon. So, thank you for trusting me. If there’s ever anything you need, just tell me, okay? Even if it’s just to talk.” _

_ The chance to talk, however, was the greatest gift anyone had ever given him.  _

-

“You saw San?” Dr. Kim repeats, a frown appearing on his lips. “And spoke to him?”

“I did,” Yunho says, “he didn’t let me apologize, but I think we’re on good terms.”

The therapist schools his expression into something blank. It’s so far from the looks that his own son gives Yunho that the boy once again struggles to find the family resemblance. 

“I won’t lecture you,” he says, scribbling something down on his iPad. “I assume Hongjoong has already given you his opinion on the situation. Do your friends support your decision to speak to San? I just want to make sure you have a network to rely on for support.”

There was probably a logistic issue about visiting your friend’s father for therapy. However, Dr. Kim was cheap and accepted his health insurance. Plus, he applied a heavy discount to Yunho’s bill every two weeks just because he considered him his ‘favorite son’.

“I haven’t actually told Hongjoong yet,” Yunho mumbles, chewing on a bit of dry skin clinging to his lower lip. “We’re having lunch after this though.” 

Dr. Kim makes a strangled noise, but doesn’t push the topic much further. Instead, he shoots off a few comments about maintaining an open mind and not vaulting too far from his comfort zone. 

“You’re doing well, Yunho,” the man says as he ushers him toward the reception desk. “I just want you to remember to take things slowly and check in with yourself when you can. Remember that journal idea I brought up during our last visit? I do think you would benefit from keeping a log…”

When he walks through the double doors of the tiny French bistro on the corner, his thoughts threaten to spill over like a too full glass. It wasn’t uncommon for his mind to feel both numb and far too full after an appointment with Dr. Kim, but that didn’t mean that he ever grew accustomed to the sensation. 

One of the waiters sees him come in and grins widely before bounding over. 

“Yunho!” Felix calls, skidding to a stop before he barrels the older over, “It’s been a while.” 

Maybe it’s the boy’s glittery eyes or the way he seems to always smile just when Yunho needs it most, but the sight is absolutely welcome. They hadn’t known each other for long, only having met a few months ago when Hongjoong recommended the restaurant, but it felt like years. 

“Hey, Lix,” he says, ruffling the other’s hair absentmindedly. “Have you guys been busy?”

Felix leans into the touch like a cat in a warm sunray. Yunho can hear him hum in affirmation before he pulls away and starts wandering toward the enclosed patio. As they pass the cashier, the hostess at the register passes Felix a canister of crayons.

“Really?” Yunho snorts when the boy shoves them into his hands. “Can I ask why?” 

“Hongjoong probably needs more,” Felix shrugs, hiding a smile. “Siyeon thought it would be funny to give him one of the kid’s coloring sheets. She told him to ‘stay in the lines’ so he said he was going to do the exact opposite.”

It’s a very Hongjoong thing to say, but still makes Yunho roll his eyes. If it helped the other relax, he wouldn’t complain. Even if he knew it was going to result in wax stains all over their table and no doubt their sleeves.

When he sees the man in question, there are indeed a dozen scraps of torn-off crayon wrapper decorating their booth like sad confetti. As Yunho settles into his seat, he hears Felix mumble something about being tipped well while Hongjoong lets loose a string of apologies.

“Blame Siyeon,” the eldest says, frowning when Felix pouts back at him. “I promise I’ll clean it up before we leave.”

“I know, hyung,” Felix giggles, “I’m just giving you a hard time. Are you both planning to have your usuals?” They nod and the boy putters back to the kitchen with their ticket. 

Hongjoong rests his chin in his hand, already sizing up Yunho before the younger has a chance to even greet him. While Hongjoong was dressed as impeccably as usual, donning a fluffy cardigan, beret, and light-wash cuffed jeans, Yunho was only in a black hoodie and sweats. At least, he hoped that it was black. There was always a chance that he pulled any of the other deep tones from his closet and set about his day. 

“So, were you going to tell me that you ran into San?” Hongjoong asks at the same moment that Yunho has decided to take a long sip of his iced tea. The question startles him, shooting the liquid down the wrong pipe, and sending him straight into a coughing fit. 

Hongjoong, eyes wide, scrambles out of his chair to pound on Yunho’s back with a curled fist. 

“That,” Yunho chokes out, using his sleeve to wipe his mouth, “does nothing to help someone.”

“I was trying!” Hongjoong whines and flops back into his seat.

“You were punching me,” Yunho grumbles, “with your itty bitty fists.” He doesn’t bother to dodge the real hit that Hongjoong lands on his shoulder. 

Hongjoong sticks out his tongue, but schools his expression into something mildly apologetic when Yunho meets his narrowed gaze. 

“I was going to tell you that I ran into him, yeah,” he says, finally taking a real sip of his drink. “How’d you find out so quickly though? Your dad didn’t say anything, did he?”

Hongjoong waves him off, picking one of the lighter crayons from the table. 

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, baby,” he murmurs, drawing out the pet name like the chorus of some song. There were enough odds that it might actually be one of his own making. “Jongho texted me after you left the party.”

Yunho nods, making a metal note to tell his little brother to keep some things a secret. It wasn’t like he meant harm in telling Hongjoong, however, he would rather have brought up the conversation himself. Especially when the breakup affected the older man’s own relationship in a number of ways. 

“We really just talked,” he says, picking at one of the paper scraps. “I’ll be honest, the whole situation was weird. But I think we’re on the same page.” 

“Same page?” Hongjoong repeats with a raised brow. 

“Similar page– right chapter. We’re at least in the same book,” Yunho groans and slams his forehead against the table. “Hell, we might not even be in the right library. He wasn’t clear about anything other than wanting to be part of each other’s lives again.”

Hongjoong gives a soft hoot and holds a fist in the air. 

“That’s progress!” he cheers, but quiets down when Yunho doesn’t respond immediately. “Is that what you want, Yun?” he asks.

_ Is it?  _

He thinks of dimpled smiles and starlight. Nights where laughter seemed endless and Instax film littered their living room floor because they just couldn’t get one picture to fit them both in the frame. He thinks of happiness and wonders if it would be wrong to be selfish. 

“Yunho?” Hongjoong repeats gently. His voice is tender as the older man lays a palm over Yunho’s wrist. “You don’t have to answer me–”

“I want that,” he interrupts suddenly. In any other situation, Hongjoong would probably be angry that he was interrupted. Right now, however, he only squeezes the squishy place between Yunho’s thumb and forefinger before pulling away.

“So, then, chase after it,” he says, eyes dancing over Yunho’s shoulder. “Here comes Lix with our food. Chin up, buttercup. The last thing you want is our precious Australian doting after you every time you sigh.”

Yunho gasps, “I hardly sigh!”

“You breathe like a racehorse on its final leg when you’re gloomy,” Hongjoong chuckles. To punctuate the statement, he presses both of his index fingers into the dips of Yunho’s cheeks with a mischievous grin.  _ Typical Scorpio. _

“Are you giving the puppy smiling lessons?” Felix asks, narrowly dodging the straw wrapper that shoots his way. “Yah! I’ll tell Seonghwa that you’re littering.” 

As the waiter unloads his tray onto their table, Hongjoong holds up his completed picture. 

“While you’re at it, you should let the queen know her request has been successfully denied.” 

Siyeon’s indignant squawk echoes through the bistro as soon as Felix transports the drawing back to her. It’s no surprise that it ends up taped to the wall behind the register immediately. 

\- 

**_→ PURPLE_ **

_ “It’s an amethyst,” San had said as he tilted his hand this way and that. When the light caught the gem in the center of his engagement band, tiny lavender prisms shot off of its uneven surface.  _

_ “Sannie, hold still or I’ll never be able to get a picture of it,” Seonghwa laughed and repositioned the camera. “Editing can only do so much.” _

_ “Are you saying you’ll have to edit my husband’s beautiful face?” San whined. His voice was airy, like springtime and mint, but the palm that came up to cradle Yunho’s chin was enough to pull him back down.  _

_ Yunho smiled into the touch, though, and marvelled at the way the sunset dusted San in heaven’s light. It reminded him of the first night at their apartment. When they had been too lazy to set up the bedframe and instead threw their mattress on the living room floor.  _

_ The creamsicle sky had dripped ichor onto San’s bare torso; his sweat gleaming in the crystalline brilliance. Even long after the horizon dimmed and the stars climbed into their towers, San was breathtaking; wrapped in silken sheets and doused in passion. _

_ “Fiancé,” Seonghwa corrected with a chuckle, “you still have a few months left there, tiger. This photoshoot is only for your engagement.” _

_ San adjusted his hand to show off the delicate band and lilac stone with a giggle and quick peck to Yunho’s lips.  _

_ And Yunho, heart sore and spirit weary, ignored the way that he could no longer tell if the sunset was pink, gold, or orange.  _

_ When he asked to see the ring, he had been certain it was rose quartz. _

-

He has to be hearing things wrong, because there is no way Jongho would ever suggest–

“A camping trip,” his brother says again, adding a little bit of spice to the statement with ridiculous jazz hands. On his other side, Mingi rolls his eyes and offers a meager shrug. 

“Have you thought this one through?” Yunho says slowly, as though the few extra syllables would make Jongho reconsider the suggestion. “What good could possibly come out of shoving eight grown men into a tent for a weekend?”

Jongho’s chair rocks as he slams his full weight against the backrest. He puffs his cheeks out, reminding Yunho of a chipmunk instead of his spoiled baby brother. 

“It wasn’t my idea. San has been telling Seonghwa about it for months. Something about desperately wanting to go camping before he’s old and grey.”

As though San’s name is a kill-switch, Yunho feels his own thoughts veering into dangerous territory. Mingi obviously senses the change in atmosphere because his best friend leans into his peripheral with an aghast expression. 

“You can’t actually be considering this,” the man murmurs, motioning wildly to his husband’s triumphant smirk. “Yun, seriously, I told him that you would take my side no matter what. The Bro-Code, dude!”

“Song Mingi, you better watch your mouth before you end up sleeping on the porch,” Jongho growls, narrowing his eyes. “Yunho is a big boy. He can make his own decisions.” 

For a moment, Yunho wants nothing to do with the idea. Camping, as a whole, was never his favorite family vacation. Especially the kind without an RV or air conditioning. 

“San really wants to do this?” he asks, tugging the skin on his thumb. “I wouldn’t be intruding if I came along?” 

Jongho smiles and reaches toward him. Carefully, he squeezes his brother’s fingers. 

“You know, he wasn’t lying when he said he wanted you back in his life. Give him a chance to prove it,” Jongho says, already pulling away. “And in the meantime, figure out what the hell you can cook over a fire. I’d trust Wooyoung to do it, but I’m worried he’ll try to do something extravagant.”

“I’m more concerned about poison ivy,” Mingi mumbles, chewing on his bottom lip. “Remember when I got it in my eye when we were ten? What if Wooyoung and Yeosang ‘get lost’ in the woods and it gets all over their clothes?”

Yunho groans, batting the air around him as though the thought had physically manifested. It wasn’t unlikely that the two would wander off to have sex somewhere during the expedition. However, if they brought any sort of toxic botanical back to the tent, Yunho would most certainly begin planning his getaway.

“It’ll be fun,” he says mostly to himself. 

By Friday afternoon, he already regrets agreeing to the trip. 

It had been decided that they would ride in two separate cars. Seonghwa would drive Hongjoong, Yeosang, and Wooyoung in one. And in the other, it would be Jongho, Mingi, San, and Yunho. It was a harmless plan. 

Thirty minutes into the two hour trip, however, Yunho felt the distant pull of motion sickness threatening to suffocate him. Despite the worried look painting San’s face, Yunho only offers him a shaky smile before pressing his temple to the window. On most drives, if he closed his eyes, the pain usually dulled. 

Though, it was the second bout of rolling nausea that sent him scrambling for his travel duffle. 

“Let me,” San says quickly. His nimble fingers were already fumbling with the side zipper of the black bag, and truly, Yunho didn’t have it in him to argue. Grunting, he adjusts his position again– seeking the comfort of the chilled glass. 

When San manages to pull the vial of Dramamine free from the abyss, he gently sets it in Yunho’s lap with a sigh. Relief, Yunho realizes, as he cracks one eye open. 

“Do you have water?” San whispers, glancing around the backseat. “I have soda in the cooler, but I know you hate taking pills with anything carbonated.” 

It’s obvious that the younger man is rambling, but Yunho’s heart thuds against his ribcage as he works the medicine cap open. 

“My water bottle is in the side pocket of the duffle, Sannie,” he grits out through another wave of dizziness. The plastic is shoved into his hands almost immediately. “Thank you,” he adds.

San doesn’t speak for a moment. In the distance, whatever playlist Jongho has on shuffle shudders out a delicate ballad. 

‘ [ _ When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. _ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/5oSSFX46m6u3UFLoouLlTw?si=ncTTYsU6Qs2YwHCrL4Zyjw) _ ’ _

“You still get carsick,” he says suddenly, letting the melody build around his words. It cradles them like a child’s blanket, fresh from the dryer, before a storm. And even as San continues, Yunho can’t stop himself from wondering when the rain will start to pour. 

“I do,” Yunho murmurs, “I guess my body just can’t handle change.”

The comment must take the younger aback, because his expression flickers between bewilderment and amusement. A candle in the wind. And then, laughter fills the car. This time, the kind that sprouts bluebells and caresses stardust like lustre. 

And it rips his heart to shreds, constricting his throat, when Yunho realizes just how pure the sound is. And just the same, how badly he missed hearing its grace.

He doesn’t even know what was so funny. Still, San brushes tears from his lashes like dew drops and grins behind a damp hand. And Yunho sees it again, the rosy pink tint that tickles the other’s cheeks. 

As clear as day, there is a subtle saturation to everything around them. Purple, blue, and yellow braided bracelet tied to San’s wrist. The faded coral of his hair. The one red-polished nail on Yunho’s right ring finger. The steadily changing autumn leaves, cast in gold and maroon. 

Only this time, he holds his tongue and closes his eyes. 

“Yunho?” San says softly. When his palm wraps around Yunho’s upper arm, the man jumps. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” he whispers, “just don’t feel too good again.” 

Even with the world bursting into radiance around him, Yunho isn’t sure he believes in love. Of course, it’s out there. The Hallmark definition with pink hearts and red carnations. He’s certain that there are people who understand how it all works. 

But Yunho is selfish, shameless, and by all means, an asshole. He either felt too much far too quickly or the empty, numbness that wormed its way between his ribs and played pinochle in that empty part of his chest. 

But when San motions toward his lap, where his thighs would provide the perfect pillow for Yunho’s aching head, he decides to say nothing. For San. 

He isn’t sure when he falls asleep, but he does wake up to the gentle rocking that comes with everyone else climbing out of the car. He sits up slowly, one hand rubbing his eyes as he takes in their surroundings. 

“Good morning,” a gentle voice chimes. San stares back at him, dimples lighting up his face like a beacon in the night. If it was anyone else, Yunho might be alarmed. But San makes his heart flutter until he remembers just who they are. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, already working to unbuckle his seatbelt. 

A glance at his ex-lover’s expression shows him the only thing he needs to know: he has managed to hurt him once again. Only this time, he doesn’t plan to let the wound fester. 

“San,” Yunho mumbles, “why didn’t you wake me?”

The other boy mulls it over. With a shrug, he pulls Yunho’s duffle from beneath the seat and climbs out of the car. Yunho follows, focus burning holes in San’s back. Beneath the light t-shirt, the way his muscles ripple when he lifts one of the suitcases from the trunk of the car is all too distracting. 

With a quiet gasp, Yunho dives into the nearly empty space and pretends to search for a piece of luggage to carry. The only things remaining are the tent pack and a set of folding chairs. Groaning, he hefts them all over his shoulders and trails after the rest of the group like a lost puppy. 

“Are you feeling better?” San asks, falling in stride with Yunho. “I got worried that you might puke for a bit there.”

Yunho prays his ears aren’t tipped in red as he rushes out a quick, “I’m fine.” 

San doesn’t seem put off by his terse answer. He only shrugs and continues down the path to their designated campsite. Evidently, Hongjoong’s group had already checked-in with the location’s guides. 

“What made you want to go camping?” asks Yunho, cocking his head. While they were dating, the other man had never mentioned anything of the sort. It leaves an odd taste in his mouth to think that San had been ‘desperate’ to rough it for a weekend. 

San pauses and gnaws on his bottom lip. The action draws Yunho’s attention immediately, sprouting a frown on his lips like thistles. As far as he knew, it wasn’t a difficult question. Yet, San seems seconds from not bothering to answer it. 

“Sorry, if it’s invasive you don’t–”

“Yun,” San chuckles nervously, “I thought I told you to stop apologizing. To answer you though, I wanted to spend time with everyone.” 

The snort that leaves Yunho’s nose is entirely involuntary. However, it makes San spill into anxious giggles as his palm finds the back of his neck. Looking sheepish, the boy stops moving in the center of the trail. 

“What are you doing?”

San tilts his head back until he is staring straight up at the sky. Taking in the canopy of rusted leaves and autumn breeze, the sunlight rains down on him like molten gold. In another life, he would be a brilliant siren drifting beneath the ocean’s surface. Cast in the refraction of iridescent prisms on his skin.

“I like when they change color,” he hums. And Yunho feels it then, the anchor tied to his ankle. It weighs him down, pulling as hard as it can, until Snell’s window is nothing but a speck of rippled cerulean. 

San doesn’t live in a world doused in monochrome. 

Yunho’s jaw clicks shut. As he mirrors the other man’s position, he pretends that this is everything he could have ever dreamed of. 

_ San’s happiness.  _

This had been his goal, right? When he broke up with San, the other was free to find someone that could love him like he deserved. So, why is there ivy wrapping around his lungs and cotton filling his throat?

Instead of saying anything, he just squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that the world will give him a chance to breathe. Maybe not yet, but someday soon. 

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” San sings, finally twirling away like a chatoyant jewel-beetle in the summer breeze. Yunho can nearly see gossamer wings sprouting from his back– can nearly hear the buzz of his nerves. 

“You are,” he whispers to the sky. There’s no one close enough to witness how he dips himself in honey tea and melts into the saccharine puddle; biscuit-feeble. 

It’s later, when Hongjoong thinks the most hilarious thing is poking Seonghwa in the ribs from ten-feet away with one of the steel stakes, that Yunho remembers exactly why he hates camping. 

“It’s supposed to be a pop-up tent,” Jongho whines, shoving the mess of polyester and nylon fabric in front of them. “Everything was supposed to come assembled.”

“That was before you let Daehwi take it hiking last year,” Mingi chuckles, pulling his lover to his hip. In any other situation, Yunho would think his brother and best friend were the epitome of domestic preciousness. But right now? He has the urge to pick up Hongjoong’s new hobby.

The instructions in his hands make little to no sense, and above all else, have been crinkled beyond repair. Not to mention, San, Wooyoung, and Yeosang, have wandered off to go ‘fishing’. Everyone in the remaining group knew all too well that their goal was to go splash around in the river and avoid the hard labor back at the site. 

“It says to connect the two orange-tipped poles with the ones in bright green,” Yunho grumbles, picking up the pieces on his own. The silence only becomes thunderous when he snaps another set together. Skeeved out by the way no one seems to be moving, he lifts his head to meet the confused gazes of the four other men. 

“You did it on your own,” Mingi says slowly, glancing between the stakes set out in front of Yunho. “And it’s right. Dude, what the fuck?” his best friend whispers, eyes growing wide. 

It’s then that he realizes his mistake. 

By all means, he should never be able to sort out the colors without help. 

“It was a lucky guess,” Yunho mumbles, already scrambling to push himself from the soil. “I’m going to go find Wooyoung–”

“The hell you are,” Hongjoong nearly growls, tugging him down. “Jeong Yunho, get back here and tell us what’s going on.”

For a moment, he considers giving it all he’s got to sprint in the other direction. However, he just so happens to be stuck with four people who could undoubtedly survive a zombie apocalypse on their own. Hongjoong, in particular, would bite the creatures right back. 

Electing to maintain the health of his Achilles tendons, Yunho lowers himself back to the ground with a whimper. 

“Who?” Seonghwa asks, leaning forward on his haunches. “Not Felix from the bistro, right? I’m pretty sure Chan would dig your grave himself–”

“It’s no one,” Yunho says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, it’ll pass. I just need to give it time and no one will be getting sent to an early grave or forced to become an impromptu astronaut.”

The branches above them rustle, as though the sky is far too heavy to hold, and Yunho sighs into nature’s melody. However, fingers thread through his as Jongho forces him to meet his concerned stare. 

“It’s San, isn’t it?” his brother whispers. He knows that the breeze won’t carry the tender question far, but just the thought of speaking it into existence makes Yunho’s blood run cold. Even so, he bites his bottom lip, drawing warm salt and iron into his mouth. 

Instead of saying it aloud, he can only nod slightly. 

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes, flopping against the earth, “that’s a whole can of worms, little man.”

The nickname isn’t enough to make Yunho laugh, but it does pull a rush of air from his lungs. Beside him, Jongho squeezes his hand with a soft expression. There is quiet in love; the certain kind that blossoms from comfort and thrives in warmth. 

Jongho was yarrow– delicate, but courageous. A flower of war and protection. 

“You can’t help what you feel, Yunho,” his brother says gently. “Are you alright?”

The question throws Yunho for a loop as he raises a single brow. 

“With loving again,” Jongho adds gracefully. “No matter who it is. Above all else, as long as you are alright, I don’t think it’s a mistake.”

“You should talk to him,” Seonghwa says from across the misshapen circle. “Things weren’t great last time, but you’ve both matured. If it means anything, I think you should be proud of that at least, Yunho.”

Before he respond, laughter peals from the direction of the river. High-pitched and melodic, it’s obvious that the others are on their way back. So, with an apologetic smile and a shrug, Yunho realizes that they’re out of time to talk about his love life. Or rather, lack thereof. 

San emerges from the treeline first, a fishing pole in one hand and a tacklebox in the other. His thin t-shirt from earlier has been removed, slung over a muscular shoulder, and seems to be thoroughly damp. 

The light bounces off of his skin like a scene from a cheesy vampire-romance movie, but the only thought on Yunho’s mind is how the man has completely overthrown Legolas as the most otherworldly being he has ever seen. Elven archer be damned, Choi San was built like God’s gift to humanity. Orlando Bloom, without a doubt, could find a home in someone else’s dreams for the next century.

Whimpering pathetically, Yunho sets back to work on the tent-mess that still sits deconstructed before them. Jongho takes over the job of matching pole colors; dictating that Yunho should instead thread the steel and fiberglass stakes through the fabric piping on the tent’s body. He accepts the role willingly, as anything that might keep his embarrassment to a minimum was optimal. 

He could lie and say that he didn’t jump a mile into the air the moment someone locked their chin over his shoulder. 

“You doing grunt work?” San asks, his cheek pressing against Yunho’s. The contact is warm, and a little sticky with sweat, but welcome. His natural reaction would be to nuzzle the other man back, so he grits his teeth and nods instead. 

San hums and shifts until he sits cross-legged next to the older. 

“Let me help,” he says and doesn’t wait for a response before prying the fiberglass rod from Yunho’s grasp. “I built a lot of these with my sister when we were kids.”

“I thought you’ve never been camping?” Yunho asks, watching the other man concentrate on pushing the piece through the flimsy skeleton-base of their temporary residence. When it slides home-free, San turns around with a triumphant grin. 

“I haven’t,” he shrugs, “but you’ve met our family. We thought pitching a tent in the backyard was as good as spending the weekend secluded from society.”

It’s an image that makes Yunho laugh loudly. The sound is real and deep as he pulls his knee up to his chest and rests his cheek on it. 

“I can imagine it,” he says. San smiles widely and gives him a thumbs up before holding out his hand for another rod. It’s a comfortable process, even if it feels far too domestic for Yunho’s feeble heart. 

“You don’t mind sharing one of the rooms with me, do you? There are only three and Hongjoong refuses to stay in any of them,” San asks as they finish threading the pieces through their sleeves. 

_ Oh _ . In the chaos of the week, he hadn’t even thought about their sleeping situations. 

“Hongjoong!” he calls out abruptly, watching the man’s head pop up from behind the tent’s slowly forming bubble. “Where are you and Seonghwa sleeping?”

“Our car. My back can’t handle tent-life thanks to our couch,” Hongjoong snorts, diving back into whatever he was working on the other side. Across the way, Seonghwa grumbles something about it being Hongjoong’s fault for passing out in the living room so often after overworking himself.

“If you don’t want to–” San begins, but Yunho flails frantically.

“Oh! No, sorry, I definitely want to,” Yunho says quickly, “I was just worried about Hongjoong for a moment.” The last bit comes out as a nervous chuckle, but it’s worth it when he sees the relief melt over San’s face like lemon drops. 

The younger nods, smiling quietly to himself, and continues finishing their project without much more conversation to be had.

Late at night, the fire burns low in the ring. Although they had brought dozens of drinks, Yunho can’t bring himself to drain the single bottle of soju he’s been cradling for the last two hours. Beside him, Jongho reaches over to squeeze his knee with a silent brow raise. 

Yunho can only lift his shoulders with a huff in response. It wasn’t like he could say anything out loud, but the heat of San’s body on his other side pushes through the flannel he threw on after dinner. The amber glow of the flames weren’t doing much to help his mood either. 

They were in the middle of another round of ‘Never Have I Ever’, but Yunho stopped paying attention after realizing that there wasn’t a question imaginable that left Wooyoung’s fingers up. And when things started to become targeted, he clocked out instantly. 

“Never have I ever made out with my best friend’s boyfriend,” Yeosang says suddenly, pulling Yunho’s attention back to the game instantly. The boy probably doesn’t mean for the challenge to pinch Yunho’s heart, but his intentions don’t exactly matter when it’s everything the other can do not to double over. 

Had San made out with Wooyoung? 

Before they broke up, it had been a topic of conversation between the two of them once or twice. Things like how San was sure in another life he would have been Wooyoung’s soulmate. However, in this one, he was just as platonic to Wooyoung as Mingi was to Yunho. 

However, it isn’t San that puts a finger down. Instead, Yunho watches in what feels like slow motion as Seonghwa lets loose a sting of uncharacteristic curses and folds his remaining hand into a fist. 

“To be fair,” Hongjoong says with an impish smirk, “it was hot as shit and we told them to do it.”

“And I’d let him make out with me again anytime,” Wooyoung snorts, taking a sip of his drink. “Those lips? Holy fuck, Hongjoong, you must have been a saint in your last life.”

He narrowly dodges the slap Yeosang aims at the back of his head before letting the man tug him in the direction of the tent. Before they’re too far out of earshot, Mingi calls out a drunken, “Use protection!”

When the group falls into quiet giggles, Jongho fumbles with the speaker they have set up. 

“I love them, but the last thing I want to hear is whatever they’re about to get up to,” he says, snorting when Mingi chokes next to him. 

“As long as they remember to air the place out before we come in,” San says, slinging an arm over Yunho’s shoulder. It’s so natural that neither seems to notice why it is out of place until Yunho catches Seonghwa’s owlish stare from across the fire. 

Tensing up as though the flames had licked his heels, Yunho processes the weight of San’s touch in seconds. The sudden movement makes San glance between his limb and the man beside him as though he can’t figure out what’s out of place. And then, he gasps and pulls away like Yunho’s body scalded him. 

Although he was the one to initiate the tension, it doesn’t stop the hurt from feathering into Yunho’s veins. He would much rather be doused in gasoline and tossed upon the pyre than forced to analyze his emotions almost completely sober. In the middle of the woods, no less.

“Sorry,” San mumbles, picking at the label on his soju. Yunho hadn’t been keeping track, but from the lack of empty containers around San’s chair, it seemed the other man was still on his first bottle as well. 

Yunho shakes his head and scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish grimace. 

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry for being weird about it,” he says, frowning when he feels San’s dark gaze tracing shapes into his skin. The others have delved back into conversation, leaving the two to their own devices. 

Even so, words sit like ash on the tip of Yunho tongue as he runs it along the back of his teeth. As though the cracks and crevices hide the poetics he’s so desperate for. The metaphors and memories of just how sorry he is about their past and present.

Just as he begins to speak– to say something stupid about the weather– San coughs into his fist. 

“Seonghwa, do you have your keys? I think I forgot my sleeping bag in your trunk,” he says, already pushing himself out of his chair. The eldest digs through his pocket and tosses his set toward San. 

But Yunho knows, for a fact, there was nothing left in the car. After all, he had been the last one to finish unloading it. Not to mention, they rode with Jongho and Mingi.

He gives San a five-minute head start before standing up and bowing to their friends. 

“Go find him,” Hongjoong says with a soft smile. “And Yunho? You should tell him the truth.”

“All of it?” he whispers, cheeks already flushing.

“That’s what it means to have a fresh start, babe.”

Yunho hardly hears him over the crunch of his tennis shoes’ rubber soles against the mulch pathway. Dead leaves give way to their swan songs, crumbling with the heavy footfalls. His own breath comes out shallow and misted in the early twilight. 

The familiar flash of coral in the distance ignites whatever sorrow had sunk to the mossy bottom of his soul. San is slumped against the trunk of Seonghwa’s car. His forehead pressed to the chilled metal, grounding him to the same planet. 

And like iron splinters chasing a magnet, Yunho lets his body carry him to San’s side. Tonight, he’s nothing more than a passenger along for the ride.

San must hear the way tiny pebbles scuffle across the pavement, disturbed by Yunho’s clunky steps, because a switch seems to flip on the man’s demeanor. He lifts his head and brushes the tears from his eyes, ducking his face into the bend of his elbow. 

“It must be in the tent,” San calls before Yunho gets too close. He tacks on a humorless laugh, as though it does anything to convince the other that he’s anywhere near joyful spirits. “Head back without me! I just need a second.”

“San,” Yunho whispers, daring to move forward. “What’s wrong?”

He tries not to take it to heart when San scoots backward. Or the way he crosses his arms over his eyes like he’s preparing for a hit. 

“Hey, Yunho,” he sniffles, pressing his spine to the car. “Don’t worry about me, I’m alright. Just a little stuffy. Haven’t been around this much nature before, probably the pollen.” 

He’s doing that thing. The one where he babbles about something that could very well be true but most certainly wasn’t.

“You’re deflecting,” Yunho says softly, cementing his feet in place. If it was distance San wanted, he wasn’t about to push the boundaries even further. “I think it’s more than allergies, Sannie.”

“Don’t call me that.” The response is quick and venomous like a cottonmouth’s bite. Yunho is immediately taken aback by the toxicity in San’s tone. 

“I’m sorry—“

“Stop fucking apologizing, Yunho!” This time, the demand is loud and clear as San drops his arms. They swing against his sides, drawing Yunho’s attention for a ridiculous second, before San is curling in on himself and sliding to the ground. If it wasn’t for the silence around them, Yunho isn’t sure he would hear the other man’s soft sobs.

“San,” he says carefully, “I need you to tell me what’s going on. I can’t help if you won’t let me.”

“It’s nothing you can fix, Yunho,” he whimpers, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. “I’m just an idiot. I’ll get over it eventually, so just, leave me here.”

In any other circumstance, Yunho would consider it. Not because he thought it would be the right decision, but because he knew first-hand how it felt to have others try to tell you what was right or wrong. And the last thing he wants to do is push San into an uncomfortable position. 

“No,” Yunho says finally, moving to the other man’s side without another second of hesitation. “You might think you want to be alone right now, and you’re lashing out at me like a hurt animal, but I don’t feel like it’s a good idea to leave you out here by yourself. Not when you’re like this.” 

For a moment, San looks like he might strangle Yunho. His eyes are narrowed, sharp and cold, while the rest of his face falls impassibly blank. He’s calculating his next step, Yunho realizes. As though this was a game of chess instead of a conversation.

And then, he whines. A horrible, heart wrenching sound that makes Yunho’s stomach lurch as the boy throws himself into his chest.

“I wanted to be mad at you,” San whimpers. “I wanted to hate you with everything I had, but I couldn’t. So, I thought maybe being friends would make that ache go away— that it would fill whatever gap you left behind.” 

There are tear stains on Yunho’s flannel. But at this point, he can’t tell if they’re San’s or his own.

“When you asked me if I stopped seeing color, all those years ago, you were asking me if I had fallen out of love. And I thought there was someone else— like Mingi or Hongjoong,” San rushes out, his stuffy nose garbling some of the words to be nearly incomprehensible. “So, I lied like a fucking idiot and made up that story about the cardigan.”

“But it was behind the dresser—“

“Because it was the most atrocious shade of yellow I’ve ever seen in my life, Yunho!” San cries, pushing Yunho’s shoulder harshly. “I thought I could make myself believe that I also wanted to end things. That we were too young and too reckless to start a life together.”

And that was exactly what Yunho feared. That San would have regrets about the future, had he stayed with Yunho. There’s a dark moment where his brain runs a lap singing, “I told you so!” 

“I forced myself through the desaturation,” Yunho blurts out. His hands slap over his mouth just as San’s lips fall open into a perfect ‘o’. 

“You what?” 

And Yunho knows how many steps he’s taken off of the metaphorical cartoon cliff. Only this time. He doesn’t see a reason to hold on to the roots that dangle, guiding him to safety. 

“I couldn’t give you the life you deserved. We were nothing like the movies, even though that’s all you ever talked about. You watched dramas with the whole galaxy in your eyes and I couldn’t even light a single star in them,” Yunho says quietly. 

It’s weird, finally saying these things out loud. Especially with San beside him three years later. 

“I thought if I tricked myself into no longer loving you, it would make it easier on us both. That way you could find someone better—“

“You’re lying,” San interrupts, “please. Tell me that you’re lying, Yunho.”

When the other doesn’t respond, San drops his head into his hands.

“Is that really what you thought of me? That I didn’t deserve you—“

“That you could find someone who would make you happier,” Yunho corrects. “A person who would love you the right way.”

“I was happy!” San yells, finally meeting Yunho’s eyes. Fire and fury brim beneath the surface, but Yunho catches the green and gold flecks he missed so dearly. “Who are you to decide how I feel? You manipulated the situation and then had the audacity to blame it on something as natural as falling in and out of love.” 

“San—“

“No,” San says, pressing a finger against Yunho’s chest. “Do you know how many hours I stayed awake thinking that this was all my fault? That I wasn’t worthy of love?”

“San, please,” Yunho cries, desperate to lay his apologies out on a silver platter. However, San holds up a palm.

“Do you know the worst part? It’s that I’ve known for months what you did. Seonghwa told me.” He shifts so that he’s facing Yunho dead-on. Their knees pressed together like children in Sunday school. “The worst part is that my life is still as saturated as it was through our entire relationship. Because, even though you tore through me like a silver-tipped arrow, I can’t shake the way you make me feel.”

It hits Yunho like a bullet. The desperation, the excitement. The longing. Every emotion he saw flicker over San’s features since they were brought back together had a reason more intricate that he could ever imagine. 

“Are you saying—“

“That I still love you? I guess I am,” San sighs, his tears finally drying on his cheeks. And somehow, Yunho finds the bravery to reach out to him. To lay his palm upon the other’s jaw and thumb away at the dampness that clings there. 

“San,” he says, hardly above the volume of a tinkling bell or sea shells deposited on the ocean shore. “You are the reason I learned the color pink twice. You’re the reason I think sunsets look best when their light dances on your skin and why I can’t throw away those stupid strawberry salt and pepper shakers.” 

He wraps San’s fingers in his own; surprised that the younger lets him do it. 

“You’re the reason autumn is my favorite season and why I wanted to give camping another chance even though I absolutely hate it,” Yunho finishes gently. “It’s probably presumptuous to say, but I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. It was just easier to latch onto the idea of letting you go than it was to realize that things aren’t supposed to be perfect Hallmark movies.”

San is quiet as his thumb drags over the dip in Yunho’s wrist. It tickles, for a second, when he brushes over a triangle of darkened skin there– a burn scar from their old oven. A reminder of the nights they spent trying to cook and failing miserably. An ode of their past left to play on loop behind closed eyelids and deep within pastel dreamscapes.

“It still hurts,” San says suddenly, letting his head drop onto Yunho’s shoulder. At first, Yunho wonders if he’s talking about the mark. When San falters in his ministrations, it becomes obvious that wasn’t the topic at hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Yunho whispers. This time, San doesn’t tell him to take it back. He just hums and presses his nose to the fabric of Yunho’s flannel. The scent of smoke and pine still lingers there, just over his heart. 

“I know,” San breathes, “I know you’re sorry. And I am too– for making you believe I wanted anything more than you, Yunho.” 

There is silence to be found in the hearth of comfortable love. Burning among the embers and sizzling with every delicate touch. Where poppies shield field mice from gentle rain and ocean grasses sway in the building tempest winds. 

_ What now? _

With San beside him, cradling his palm like the last preserver on a lifeboat, he can’t help but ask the question. Maybe not aloud, but San senses it nonetheless. 

“Where do you want to go from here?” he asks, squeezing Yunho’s pinky. There are countless ways they could approach this. But for once, Yunho doesn’t want to tiptoe around the edges.

“If you would let me,” he starts, “I want nothing more than to love you, freely and truly. Like you’ve always deserved.”

San laughs breathlessly. The sound of windchimes; blossoming bluebells and honeysuckle. When he reaches up to caress the sensitive space beneath Yunho’s chin, he knows there is no going back. Not with the way his touch ignites his flesh like sunlight. 

“I want nothing more,” San whispers, pulling Yunho’s face centimeters from his own, “than whatever love you have to offer. I’m begging you to kiss me, sunshine.” 

Yunho closes the distance without a second thought. The feeling of San’s lips on his own is a gift he never thought he would be given again. Despite the urgency pooling in the pit of his stomach, Yunho lets the younger lead him through the motions.

San kisses the way dusk meets dawn. Soft, with the occasional ghosted breath, like forgetting where you were and starting over from the top. There’s nostalgia in the tenderness; calculated and precise. But somehow, it’s still so easy to get lost in the memory of the past as it collides with the all-seeing eye of the present.

He tastes like peach soju and cherry lip balm. 

The same thing he offers Yunho when he pulls away, smiling sweetly as the other presses another kiss to his forehead. And then his temple. 

“Are you saying my lips are chapped?” Yunho laughs, shoving his shoulder gently. 

“Yeah, dude, I am,” San chuckles, digging through the front pocket of his jeans for the tube. “I love you, so much, but please.”

He shoves the tiny red stick into Yunho’s chest with a pout. The older accepts it and snorts as he applies it to his mouth. When he finishes, he pops the cap back on and moves forward quickly to plant a sloppy, sticky kiss to San’s cheek. 

The action makes the boy squeal and scrub frantically at the mark. But all Yunho can pay attention to is the single dimple that pops up on his left side and the flush of pink painting his skin. 

It’s a color that Yunho wants to see for the rest of his life. 

When they get back to the campsite, the fire has long since delved to faintly glowing embers and charcoal. Hongjoong is slumped over in his chair, hands balled up in tiny fists, with his head resting on Seonghwa’s shoulder. Seonghwa, however, opens his eyes just long enough to push a single finger to his lips. 

No doubt, they will never hear the end of Hongjoong’s complaints when the soreness in his spine pays him a visit. But for now, it’s a sight all too domestic. One so sickly sweet that Yunho would be bitter if not for the soul at his hip. 

“Night,” Yunho whispers, smiling when Seonghwa nods softly before settling back into his seat. At some point, he’d probably find it in himself to move Hongjoong back to their car. 

San squeezes his hand as they kneel in front of the tent entrance. Thankfully, they had already decided which compartment was going to be theirs earlier in the night, so there was little risk to waking up any of the others. 

Just as Yunho settles into his sleeping bag, a quiet whine reverberates next to him. Rolling over, he comes face-to-face with San. 

“Do you need something?” he chuckles, stifling an even louder giggle when San tries to unzip the bedding with another desperate sound. “Are you cold?”

“Yes,” San whispers comically, “you never said that sleeping in a tent was going to freeze my tits off.”

“To be fair,” Yunho snorts, shuffling to the side to make room for the younger man, “you never asked.” It earns him a playful slap to the thigh as San snuggles into the downy cocoon. 

“You’re mean,” he mumbles and rests his chin on Yunho’s chest. “It’s really cramped in here,” he adds after a few beats of silence. 

“We’ll zip our sleeping bags together tomorrow night,” Yunho yawns, worming an arm around San’s waist. It would be numb when he woke up, no doubt, but the present comfort was worth it. Especially with the way San maneuvers himself into the curve of Yunho’s side like he was meant to be there. 

Even with his eyes closed, he can see the universe around them. The spectrum of colors he selfishly made himself lose. Maybe out there, somewhere, they would find another. A blue so cerulean even the oceans would burn with envy. Or possibly a purple deeper than the midnight sky.

Or maybe, they had seen them all. And now, they would work to give each one a name– a story befitting of their own. The kind of iridescence found in gossamer dragonfly wings and pastel dreamscapes carved from opal. There was a sense of wonder to be found in the limitless unknown. 

“Yunho?” San whispers. Yunho shifts slightly, their faces centimeters apart, and meets the other man’s dark gaze. His eyes are warm and filled with a glimmer akin to hope. “What’s your favorite color?”

It catches him off guard; in the way that only San can do so effortlessly. But the younger waits, holding the galaxy in his gaze and Yunho’s heart in his palm. With a soft chuckle, Yunho makes his choice. 

“All of them,” he murmurs, feeling San shift onto his elbows. “I can’t pick one, because I don’t think I know them all yet.”

San ponders his answer for a moment, staring down at him as though it’s the only response he didn’t expect. And then, he lets out a laugh so loud Yunho immediately scrambles to cover his mouth before he wakes up the others. Under his palm, San’s breath comes out in hot little puffs. 

Yunho only lets go when San licks his skin, pulling a squeak from the older. 

“I don’t know what I expected,” San says, still giddy, “but that’s the most you thing to say.” 

Yunho huffs indignantly and rolls onto his other side. Behind him, San wraps an arm around his waist and presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck. 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, you big baby,” he says into Yunho’s hair. “I think it’s precious.” 

“What’s yours, then?” Yunho asks, placing a hand over San’s. 

The other thinks about it for a second before Yunho feels him smile. 

“Purple,” he says, “the whole spectrum of purple. Like when you look at an amethyst and it tapers from lavender to pure violet.” 

And as the sunrise begins to spill into the sky just through the mesh window, twilight folding into dawn, Yunho can picture exactly the color he means. They drift off into the sea of dusty rose and honey-colored dreams; ignorant to the slow beginnings of morning bird calls and shifting clouds. 

Even when they’re startled awake by the sound of a thunderstorm rolling overhead, the tranquility of the night before cradles them tenderly. Past Seonghwa’s booming voice demanding that they hurry and pack their things. Beyond the still sleepy atmosphere that lingers while they throw the tent back into its bag and toss their luggage into the cars. 

Things could be frantic and electric-laced, but instead, Yunho finds peace. Especially as San dozes off, pink hair tickling Yunho’s cheek. He catches Jongho’s knowing smirk in the rearview mirror and returns it with a crude gesture.

When they pull into the parking lot of Yunho’s apartment building, Jongho turns around in his seat to smirk at the couple. 

“San,” he says, making the still drowsy boy jump, “do you want me to drop you off at your place?” 

He hesitates, instead picking at a hangnail on his thumb. Yunho reaches over subtly, pulling the man’s fingers apart and intertwining his with them. 

“It’s okay,” San says, hiding the gentle expression that colors his cheeks. “I think I’ll just hang out at Yunho’s until the storm passes. If that’s alright?”

Yunho nods, pressing a kiss to the man’s temple and ignoring the hoot that Mingi lets loose. They grab their things from the trunk easily and set off up the stairs, waving at the other two as they drive away. 

As they reach his landing, Yunho watches the way San leans against the wall. The younger man shivers slightly, no doubt thanks to his still damp clothing. The storm had caught them like fish in a trap and no matter the setting Jongho threw the heat on, the rain’s chill had already nipped them to the bone. 

Arms crossed over his chest, San smirks when he catches Yunho’s gaze trained on him.

“Like something you see?” he asks, wiggling a brow suggestively. Yunho snorts and turns back to the lock. 

“You already know that I like what I see,” he says, pushing the door open, “I was just wondering if you wanted a shower.”

He moves inside the apartment and fumbles along the wall for the light switch. Whoever designed the complex had made sure to slap them in the most nonsensical places. His fingers finally brush the smooth plastic, but when he gives it a flick upward, a crack of thunder shakes the room. 

Shrieking, he flattens himself to the wall just as San has begun toeing off his shoes. The motion knocks into the younger, sending him tumbling, and Yunho soon after. 

As though they were part of some silly shoujo manga, Yunho finds himself suddenly straddling San’s hips. One hand planted firmly on his chest while the other is braced against the hardwood floor, it would be a precarious situation if not for the low groan San lets tumble from his throat.

“Shit,” he whines, rubbing the back of his skull, “I’m not weak, I swear, but I think your floor might have it out for me.” 

“Oh my god,” Yunho says quickly, scrambling off of San’s lap. “Sit up! I need to see if you’re bleeding,” he demands. 

San does as he’s told, still cradling his head. Yunho works to guide his palm away from the injury, inspecting each finger for crimson, before coming up clean. Even the salmon-toned strands of San’s hair remain untainted. However, it does little to calm the fast-paced drumming of Yunho’s heart as he watches the other wince beneath his touch. 

“I should have a bag of peas in the freezer,” he says, already moving to stand. San stares up at him, bewilderment dancing over his features. 

“I’m not really hungry–”

“For the bump,” Yunho snorts, offering a hand to pluck San from the ground like a daisy. “I don’t really keep ice packs around anymore. I haven’t exactly had the need until now.”

San hums, expression softening when he realizes the implication behind the comment. 

“Looks like you might need to pick a few up again, huh,” he grins, already crowding Yunho against the wall behind them. “After all, I think you might be stuck with me for a bit.”

“You couldn’t try to be a little less clumsy?” Yunho grins. San’s lips are distracting, of course, but that doesn’t conquer the concern that he has about San’s current injury. When San shakes his head, it seems like the conversation may be a lost cause. 

Especially when San closes the distance between them with a delicate kiss. It’s sickeningly sweet as he smiles against Yunho’s mouth, sighing when the older finally gives him access to do as he pleases. He tugs his canines over Yunho’s bottom lip, chuckling when it drags a gasp out of him. 

“Pretty,” San murmurs. When he puts distance between them, his pupils are blown wide. “Your ears are already red. Am I embarrassing you?”

Yunho whines pathetically and covers the tips with his palms. It pulls another laugh from San, clear and beautiful, as the other ushers apologies his way. 

“You didn’t answer whether or not you want me to start the shower,” Yunho says. It’s a pitiful attempt to change the topic, but to be fair, San is still standing around in damp clothes. 

San makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. 

“Will you be there?” he asks, quirking a brow. For a moment, Yunho can’t help but wonder where the shy thing from last night went. However, San was never one for masking what he wanted. 

Yunho frowns. As fun as it could be to say yes, he most certainly wanted an actual shower– for the purpose of scrubbing the layer of camping filth off of his skin. His hesitation makes San’s face fall.

“Sorry, if that was too forward–”

“No!” Yunho yelps, already scrambling to calm San’s obvious anxiety. “I just feel gross, so I kind of wanted to wash up,” he says sheepishly. 

The look of surprise that drips over San’s features is almost comical. Like a slow melting icicle, there’s a beat of silence before his face flushes deep crimson. He slaps his hands over his cheeks, obviously feeling the heat spread rapidly, and bows his head. 

“Oh my god,” he whispers, a nervous laugh spilling from his lips. “I honestly thought you were rejecting me. I mean, I knew you weren’t but…” he falters when his eyes meet Yunho’s.

“San, I love you,” Yunho says softly, wrapping his arms around the embarrassed man before him. “It doesn’t mean I’m not nervous as hell to be intimate with you again, but that’s a me-thing.”

San tucks his head into Yunho’s neck with a soft sound. His nose is chilly as it brushes over the hot skin. 

“I’m kind of glad,” San says quietly, “It’s been a while since I’ve let myself be loved, you know? I’m not terrified of you but–”

“You’re scared of love,” Yunho mumbles almost to himself. Needlessly, however, as San catches every word. It’s not as though Yunho would ever forget the moment San first told him that; laying in a dorm bed with San’s sweater stuck to the lampshade like trashy decor. 

“Of being loved,” San corrects with a smile. This time, it reaches his eyes, crinkling the edges like paper lanterns. “I’m made to give love, but it’s hard to receive it. That’s why it upset me when you said I deserved someone other than you. You were the only person I felt like actually took the time to see me for who I was; not just the idea that they had.”

Before Yunho can apologize, once again, San takes his hand gently. His thumb brushes over the scar on his wrist again, but he doesn’t hold him as though Yunho is made of glass and ivory. Instead, San squeezes his fingers with iron wrought confidence. 

“Can I ask you to do something?” San asks, his skin catching the sunlight that has just begun to peek back through the storm clouds. 

“Of course,” Yunho breathes. He worries that speaking any louder than a whisper might start a domino effect he’ll never know how to fix. 

But when San pulls him impossibly close, his arms around Yunho’s neck like they were made to be there, Yunho doesn’t feel that same thrum of uncertainty. 

“Let me prove to you that you’re the only one I want– that you’re worthy of the love you receive, as well as, everything you give.”

“Will you do the same?” Yunho says against San’s temple. His lips brush the delicate strands of pink and send a shiver down San’s spine. “Will you let me show you just how priceless you are?”

San hums and drags Yunho closer by his chin; his smile forever contagious. 

_ ‘Let the dominoes fall,’  _ Yunho thinks, ‘ _ we can always put them up again.’ _

-

**_→ IRIDESCENT_ **

Pink is San’s color. 

Or maybe, anything on the spectrum would encapsulate him just as angelically as the oversized pastel sweater Yunho pulled from his closest. However, Yunho is just as convinced that pink, in particular, had a way of bringing out the constellation of freckles spackling the expanse of the man’s neck. 

It was less of a sweater and more a cardigan, buttoned down the front with a deep neckline. He hadn’t worn it in months, so he didn’t remember the plunge being so risque. Though, he usually paired it with a t-shirt. 

San, on the other hand, had elected to weasel it out of Yunho’s grip and toss it over his still shower-raw skin the moment he emerged from the bathroom. The chunky knit hangs just below his mid-thigh, the sleeves only showing the tips of his fingers. When he feels Yunho staring at the plush swell of his ass as he bends to pick one of their towels off of the floor, he turns around with a cheshire grin. 

“My eyes are up here, you know,” he says, taking an impish step forward. 

Yunho hums, still not dragging his gaze up his lover’s body. He wonders how quickly his ears will turn red with San’s attention fully on him. San repeats himself, smirk only growing into something mischievous. 

“Well, I couldn’t see them from this angle,” Yunho shrugs, already feeling the heat pool in the pit of his stomach. San takes a step forward, teasing the blank canvas of his thigh by lifting the sweater’s fabric just slightly. Yunho’s breath catches in his throat as San leans back on the bed dangerously. 

“You know, those sweatpants aren’t hiding much, loverboy,” San sings, laughing when Yunho crosses the room to straddle his hips. “I’ve missed this,” he adds, smiling into the desperate way Yunho slots their lips together. 

When he opens his mouth, inviting the other in, Yunho takes advantage of the opportunity to run his tongue along the hard ridge of the roof– just behind San’s teeth. It pulls a needy sound from the other and Yunho hums when San pulls away. 

“That tickles,” he cries, “do you have a fetish I need to know about?” 

“Tickling?” Yunho asks, snorting when San nods against his shoulder. “No, I just like the little noises you make when I do it. I watched a documentary about tickling competitions on Netflix once, though, and those guys might be the ones with the–”

“Yunho,” San whines, canting his hips up suddenly, “I really would like less of a movie review and more attention on my dick right now, baby.”

Yunho makes a surprised noise, dripping with sheepish innocence. It only spurs San on more as he takes to grinding on Yunho’s thigh. 

“Sannie,” Yunho nearly growls, bracing his forearms on either side of the younger’s head. “Be a good boy and sit still, yeah?” 

Beneath him, San’s skin is touched by the golden light of the evening sun. Every little breath is enough to make his chest rise and fall like the sun chasing the moon relentlessly. Even so, his lover stops his ministrations almost instantly. 

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Yunho says, pressing his lips to San’s jaw. “With your hair splayed out like this.” He runs his fingers through the pink strands, cooing when San curls into the touch. “Drowning in my sweater and nothing else. You’re so naturally stunning, I almost hate to make you cry.”

San moans quietly as Yunho’s hand pushes beneath the cardigan’s hem, disappearing until it splays out over his stomach. The fabric bunches up, showing a sneak preview of San’s cock, but Yunho pretends not to see it in favor of kissing the other breathless again. 

“Yun, please,” San keens, bucking his hips. Yunho smiles nervously before letting his thumb ghost over the tip of San’s length. The reaction is immediate as San jerks suddenly and nearly dislodges Yunho from his lap. 

“Hey now,” Yunho laughs, “you can’t be that sensitive already.”

“It’s been three years,” San mumbles, covering his eyes with the back of his forearm. “I honestly don’t know how long I’m going to last.” 

“Well, first of all, safeword if you get overstimulated,” Yunho says, pressing his lips to San’s palm. “I’m assuming it’s still the same?” 

“Byeol,” San nods. 

“And second, we’ll take it as slow as you need to, but you know, I thought we learned I’m more than capable of coaxing more than one orgasm out of you,” he hums, his tone sultry. San jerks again, this time right into Yunho’s waiting hand. 

Before he starts moving it, though, he pauses and reaches for the bedside drawer. From the depths, he unearths a bottle of lube and one of the condoms from the unopened box. In the past three years, he had only spent the night with a handful of other people. But never did they come back to his place. 

And with San in his bed, a sanctuary and safe-space, he realizes exactly why. His apartment was far more intimate than he wanted to be with any one-night stand. Even with the thought of something more blossoming from any of those encounters in the back of his mind, he never wanted to give them the time. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Yunho asks, moving back to kneel over San. The younger man reaches up to thread his fingers through Yunho’s dark hair before tugging him down carefully. The kiss they share is laced less with desperation and more with nostalgia. But above all else, the promise of a better future. 

When they split, San’s eyes are glossy. Yunho can only imagine he looks similar, especially with the way his vision blurs.

“Absolutely, Yunho. Are you?”

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain of anything in my life, San,” he laughs, pecking San’s nose. “How do you want to do this?”

San squirms, but seems to mull it over, despite his earlier neediness. 

“Either blow me or just jerk me off before you fuck me,” he laughs suddenly, hand slapping over his mouth. “I’m sorry, it just is making me really anxious because I really don’t know how much I’ll be able to handle.”

“Do you want me to bottom?” Yunho suggests, raising a brow when San shakes his head wildly. “We don’t have to do the whole thing, you know, Sannie. I’m not going to be disappointed just because I can’t stick my dick in your–”

“No,” San snorts loudly, “I’ll be honest, babe, if you don’t fuck me, I might actually start crying real tears. I just don’t want you to be upset if I…”

“If you…?”

“I don’t want you to, uh, you know,” San gestures vaguely at his mouth. “It tastes gross, doesn’t it?”

Yunho stares back at him, absolutely bewildered, before guffawing. It takes a round of San smacking his thigh before the older sombers his giggly-self. 

“You always used to swallow,” Yunho says, grinning when San flushes crimson. 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind it. I just was worried that maybe you actually hated it and never wanted to do it again–”

“San,” Yunho says, lifting the younger’s chin, “I love how careful you’re being about this sort of thing, but I can promise you, I have never minded a dick down my throat or what comes after.” He smirks when San squeaks loudly and covers his face with both hands. 

Once the other regains his confidence, after a bit of coaxing on Yunho’s end in the form of little bites and red marks blooming on his skin like watercolor, he lifts the edge of the cardigan carefully. Just enough for Yunho to reach beneath the fabric and wrap his hand around the other’s length. 

Careful not to apply too much pressure, he gives San’s cock a few strokes before running his tongue along the base. Above him, he hears San suck in a sharp breath. He takes the opportunity to guide it to his mouth, letting the tip rest gently on the plush, kiss-swollen center of his bottom lip, before finally sliding it into the warm heat. 

As soon as the sensation hits San, the younger lets out a deep moan. Yunho wants to smile, but the situation makes it nearly impossible as he hollows his cheeks. It’s been a while since he’s sucked anyone off, and despite being fairly confident in his abilities, the last thing he wants to do is accidentally nick his lover with one of his canines.

“Fuck, Yun,” San keens, his fingers fisting in the sheets. 

Yunho hums proudly and runs his free hand up San’s chest until he brushes over a nipple. It makes the other man’s back arch suddenly and Yunho has to struggle to pin his hips down. When his tip meets the back of Yunho’s throat, Yunho finds himself sub-consciously folding his thumb tightly into his palm. 

He’d be damned if something as silly as his gag-reflex stopped him from deepthroating anyone. 

San’s thighs shake with every bob of Yunho’s head, but just when it seems like he might be teetering on the edge, Yunho feels a sudden tug to his hair.

“Wait,” San cries, fingers threaded tightly in Yunho’s dark strands, “Yun, hold on.”

Without hesitation, Yunho pulls off of him. Eyes wide, he scrambles to meet the other’s gaze. 

“I’m sorry did I–”

“No, no, you’re perfect,” San pants, struggling to catch his breath. “I just don’t want to come before I feel you inside me.”

The statement is hardly the most lewd thing Yunho has ever heard spill from San’s lips, but it still casts his body in amber resin as he stills all ministrations. San stares back at him, tears from his near-orgasm still brimming in the corners of his eyes, and smiles when he takes in his lover's flushed appearance. 

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles, playing with the drawstring on Yunho’s sweatpants. “Don’t tell me you forgot how to open me up. If I remember correctly, you were quite good at it.”

Yunho gasps, already feeling his ears dip red. There was the impish San he remembered. The same one that was pulling his pants down past his thighs and impatiently waiting for Yunho to tug them the rest of the way off. 

He had forgone putting boxers on under them, already aware of where San hoped for their night to go.

Coaxing him along, San reaches for his hand and slaps the bottle of lube into his palm with a smirk. 

“Now or never, puppy,” he says, leaning back on the pillows, “I’d much prefer now, in case you were wondering.”

So, Yunho moves. He pops open the cap with a grimace and lets the liquid pool between his digits. He scissors them over and over, hoping to take some of the inevitable chill off of it, and takes a deep breath when he sees the way San runs a digit over his rim with a lazy smile. Eyes half-lidded, it’s no surprise that the man is urging him to move quickly. 

Yunho takes over with a nervous sigh, whispering sweet-nothings against the curve of San’s jaw as he sucks a mark into the skin. 

“You ready?” Yunho asks, chuckling when San voices out a particularly impatient, ‘of course’. 

His middle finger slides in with the slightest bit of resistance. It’s only to be expected, especially if San has truly been abstaining for the last three years. However, the man had said nothing about fingering himself. It was a question Yunho wasn’t sure he would ever brave asking the younger either.

“Fuck,” San hisses, rocking back gently, “I forgot how weird this shit feels.”

“The lube?” Yunho assumes, watching the clear liquid squelch uncomfortable between his digits. He knows better than to think too deeply about the sounds they make, lest he gag involuntarily. 

“No, having something up my ass, baby,” San snorts, moaning when Yunho curls his finger experimentally. “I can’t wait until I feel full again, though, so you better be planning to hurry this whole thing up.”

“You are impossibly demanding,” Yunho grumbles, punctuating the statement with another crook of his middle finger. When San keens sharply, he takes the chance to slide another in. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Yunho adds, making sure that San understands the importance of doing things properly. 

San doesn’t say anything, instead adjusting to the second intrusion with a hiss. As Yunho finally starts to scissor the two digits, the man beneath him writhes against the sheets. Evidently, Yunho was just missing the spot that San wanted him to hit the most. 

By the time he deems San ready, having added a third finger and undergone an entire arsenal of crude curses, the younger no longer seems willing to form sentences. Instead, he barks out tiny, desperate commands like war cries. None of which Yunho takes the initiative to ignore. 

“I’m going to take my fingers out, okay, Sannie?” he asks, chuckling when San throws back a sharp, ‘I sure hope you are’. 

He pulls free of the tight heat and wipes his hand on San’s cardigan, disregarding the disgusted expression that crosses his lover’s face.

“I was wearing that,” San whines.

“Technically, you still are wearing it,” Yunho says cheekily, squinting down at the other man. “You look absolutely divine getting finger-fucked in my clothes, you know.”

The compliment silences San’s complaints. Wrinkling his nose, tears open the condom foil and rolls the rubber over his length. 

“I’m going to put it in now, okay?” Yunho asks, drizzling more lube onto his cock and positioning himself at San’s entrance. San lets out a squeaky confirmation, prompting Yunho to actually push into the circle of muscle. At first, he’s terrified that he’s hurting San by the way the man’s thighs tense up with the action. But he takes it slowly as San’s body adjusts to the sudden intrusion. 

“Oh,” San moans out, nails biting into Yunho’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck, you’re bigger than I remember.”

“Good thing?” Yunho asks breathlessly, fighting back the groan that spills from his throat anyways. 

“Best thing,” San pants, intertwining his fingers with Yunho’s. “Now, move before I flip us over and fuck myself.”

Yunho moans, trying not to laugh at the bratty tone that laces San’s voice. If anything came out of their clarity, it was that San was no longer afraid of voicing what he wanted. 

Carefully, Yunho pulls back until he almost slides out before slamming his hips against San’s again. Helplessly, San squeaks every time Yunho repeats the action before falling into a string of content chants. It doesn’t bother Yunho in the slightest though as he sucks another mark onto San’s throat. 

Maybe, San would kick his ass later for decorating him like a canvas. Or maybe, he would thank him. But either way, Yunho was willing to face the punishment if it meant pushing San a little closer to the edge with each new sensation. And by the time he finally locates the spongy bundle of nerves he had been so graciously avoiding during their time together, San is a mess of drawn out whimpers and damp cheeks. 

Yunho knows the other is getting close when his toes begin to curl and his spine arches off of the mattress again and again. He also knows all too well that he’ll never hear the end of how sore San’s back is, despite it not entirely being Yunho’s fault. 

“Are you gonna come for me, baby?” Yunho groans, his breath hot against San’s ear. His hand wraps around the man’s dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts. “We’ll have to wash that sweater, you know. That way we can do this again and again until–” he’s cut off by San’s desperate cry and the warm liquid spilling over his finger tips. 

His own orgasm hits almost instantly, prompted by the way San’s body clenches tightly around him. As he spills into the condom, still feeling the tremors and aftershocks of San’s high, he can’t help but let out a giddy sound.

“Did you just come because of the cardigan?” he asks.

“Probably,” San whines, burying his face in his arms, “but there’s a chance it was also because of the dick in my ass.” 

No matter how breathless he is, there’s always a place in his heart that San pulls snark from. And even so, it makes Yunho laugh harder as he pulls out and sets off to find whatever they’ll need to clean up. 

As they’re laying in bed, clad in oversized band shirts and plaid pajama pants, Yunho remembers the most ridiculous thing. Wordlessly, he stands and pads out into the kitchen, no-slip fuzzy socks shuffling over the tile. There he finds them, the ceramic nightmares that he has shamelessly carried between two very different parts of his life. 

“Hey,” he says, wandering back into his bedroom. San’s eyes are hardly open as he drifts in and out of alertness, but the moment they land on the objects in Yunho’s hands, they widen. 

“No way,” he laughs, rolling off of the mattress to shimmy over to his boyfriend. “Are those the strawberry shakers we bought when we got the old apartment?” he asks. 

Yunho nods and another guffaw pours out of his ribcage. Laughter that would always make wildflowers grow; the kind odes would surely be written about. 

There is comfort to be found in love. The silent kind that sneaks up when one leasts expects it and hides in the crevices of old houses that have seen far better days. It thrives on memories and nostalgia, collecting pieces-parts like some massive scrapbook meant for a select few to see. 

Yunho doesn’t know if he is one of the few. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever relive his memories at the end of this life; like old film played on the big screen. And he most certainly doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand where love comes from. 

But he knows something for certain. 

He’s one of the many who has lived– truly and fully. He never held the fear of death that everyone else seemed to. But there was a single thing he learned through tribulations: the aching numbness that came with being alone dulled when the warmth that spread like dandelion fluff in the spring breeze sent it on its way.

There was comfort to be found in love. His own delicate wind, curled to his side and smiling in his sleep, dimples on full display; that was all the reassurance he needed to no longer fear the imperfect. 

For that, he knew what it meant to be truly and brilliantly iridescent. 

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ Hey, loves! Thanks for reading.  
> This fic actually was a vent piece for me (sorry Yunho for making u vessel those emotions ily). That being said, those bits are actually based on my own life, so I'm not really up to accept criticism regarding them. (Not that anyone would! But it took a lot for me to actually post this so yeehaw kachow yk !)
> 
> Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


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